Without You I'd Be Miserable At Best
by TheRebelFlesh
Summary: Sherlock had always been alone, and that's the way he's always liked it. Constantly tortured by his peers, he resorts to hurting himself to drive the pain away. But when a new student named John comes along,seemingly intent on helping him, his views on friendship might just change. But will he be strong enough to keep going? Will contain triggers, and may be Johnlock. R&R!
1. Chapter 1

John was really, properly happy for the first time in what felt like a long time. It was time for a new school year, and he was off to a new boarding school. He was ridiculously nervous, of course. He'd never been to boarding school, and he didn't know any of the other student's, but he had a feeling he'd have a good time. Leaving his mum would be hard, but his older sister Harry didn't live at home any more, preferring to spend her nights drunk out of her skull and sleeping over her many girlfriend's houses, and his dad had left recently (not on good terms) and his parents were going through the processes of a messy divorce. Getting away for a bit was good, he supposed. Home was still full of so many memories of his dad, some happy and some downright depressing, and he just wanted to get away for a bit. He'd be back home for holidays and he'd be able to spend time with his mum then. Under normal circumstances, John's family never would have been able to afford sending him here, even if his dad had still been with them. The school was ridiculously posh, John had seen photos of the campus and he was impressed. But it was easily one of the best academic schools in the country, and John's grades had been enough to get his foot in the door for a scholarship. He felt himself smirking as the countryside whizzed by, and leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, allowing his eyes to droop shut.

After the several hours long car drive, they stopped in front of a great stone hall, ringed with trees already turning orange in the fall chill. He stepped out of the car, watching around him as mother and fathers hugged their children goodbye and little siblings cried in the backs of expensive cars, angry that they weren't able to tag along. He made his way quickly to the trunk, grabbing his suitcases.

"Oh sweetie," his mum sniffled, trying to flatten his unruly dark blonde hair and straighten his new jumper.

"MUM!" he groaned, pushing her hand away but hugging her tightly all the same.

John smiled at her from the curb waving goodbye and having to eventually shoo her off. Unable to contain the grin spreading across his face, he made his way through the halls. He found the offices without too much difficulty, and got his schedule and room assignments from one of the secretaries, who smiled at him and welcomed him to their school.

Finding his room, on the other hand, was a whole other story. He wandered through the wood-paneled halls for what seemed like hours, getting lost and walking into abandoned classrooms several times before getting the courage to ask one of the nicest-looking older students for some guidance.

Finally, John found himself outside his own room. 221. Glancing down at his room assignment one last time, he caught sight of his roommate's name.

"Sherlock..." he tested the name on his tongue. Strange name, he'd certainly never heard it before.

Taking a deep breath, John shook the key out of his envelope and pushed it in the lock before quietly opening the door, hoping not to disturb his roommate if he was in there already.

He really hoped he'd get a chance to meet his roommate before heading to classes, it would be nice to know someone here...

* * *

**A/N: Rewrite posted 09/05/13**


	2. Chapter 2

John opened the door slowly, not wanting to disturb his roommate if he was in there. Nobody was there though. He surveyed the room. There were two beds pushed into the corners, with a large window in between them, and each student had their own desk and wardrobe. A door on the left side of the room led to what was probably the bathroom. The floor on the right side of the room was littered with suitcases, and the desk was already covered in books and papers. Well, his roommate had obviously been up here already. Probably some guy that had been going here for years and had his own group of friends and no time to be friends with the new kid, let alone meet him. Sighing, he walked over to his bed and set his suitcase down, looking out the window. The other students were running around the vast lawn outside the boarding house. They had abandoned the stifling uniform coats, and enjoyed the warm late autumn sun. Someone had started a rugby game, another had started a football game. Others littered the lawn in small, close knit groups, lying under the shade of the huge oak trees and laughing together. Great. Everyone seemed to have their own group of friends. He decided to go out on the lawn and join in one of the football games. He hadn't played for a while, but he was pretty good, and maybe he could make a few friends in the process.

After he introduced himself, they began a new game. He scored a couple goals, and the other guys seemed to like him. They'd opened up their group warmly, and for that he was grateful. Things were going well until one of the guys, Greg, accidentally kicked to ball past the makeshift goal posts and into a small grove of trees. All at once, the game stopped and they all groaned loudly. John gave Greg a questioning look, but before he could ask what was wrong, one of the others, a smug boy they called Anderson, spoke up.

"I think it's time for the newbie to meet the freak!", Anderson shouted, grinning wickedly.

The rest of the group groaned even louder, and gave John apologizing looks. Why were they looking at him like that? He turned towards the trees and noticed, for the first time, a lone figure under on of the trees closet to the field. The ball had rolled close to him, right at his feet, but he didn't seem to notice. Unlike all of the other students, he had yet to shed his uniform coat, and even seemed to be wearing another coat on top of it. It was bloody boiling outside! He was also alone, again unlike all of the other students. In fact, everyone seemed to avoid him, not going anywhere remotely near him. Anderson had referred to him as freak. Calling him a freak seemed a little harsh though, he couldn't be that bad.

"Why do you call him freak? What does he do?", John asked.

"He's just a freak. Does this freaky thing where he tells you your whole life story just by looking at you. Nobody likes him, not even the teachers. He's some sort of genius, always corrects them.", Anderson replied smugly.

"Come on guys, he's not THAT bad...", Greg replied uncertainly, shifting from foot to foot.

Turning around to address John, Anderson said, "Don't listen to Greg here. The freak is a freak, leave it at that. But your'e gonna have to meet him eventually, so sooner rather than later, am I right?".

Anderson took John by the shoulders, turned him around, and gave him a light shove towards the trees where the boy they called "freak" was sitting. Slowly and uncertainly, John walked across the lawn, drawing the eyes of near-by boys. When he over into the trees, he quickly picked up the ball, but lingered in front of the boy. He hadn't so much as looked up and acknowledged John's existence. He really did look like a strange bloke though. Not only was he still wearing his uniform jacket, but he had added another heavy looking black coat on top of it. It was a wonder he wasn't dying of heatstroke! Unruly, curly raven hair nearly brushed the upturned collar of his trench coat, much longer than most of the other boys' hair. Clearing his throat slightly, he was about to say hello when the other boy's head snapped up and John was immediately stunned silent. The boy's face seemed unnaturally pale, and was dominated by ridiculously high cheekbones. His eyes were huge and a very pale, greenish-blue flecked with gray, and ringed with dark circles, indicative of many sleepless nights, and their sharpness and clarity seemed to contradict the purple shadows under them. His perfectly shaped cupid bow lips were parted slight...Wait. Why was he thinking about some blokes lips? Mentally shaking himself, John prepared to speak, but was interrupted by a surprisingly deep and droll voice.

"Your name is John Watson. You transferred here from another school, evident from your behavior when you arrived on the grounds and the fact that you kept checking your schedule and room assignment. You gravitated towards the football game, meaning you enjoy sports, for you could just as easily have joined in one of the other groups scattered around the lawn. Maybe you played league soccer back home, maybe you only played with your older brother, maybe you will decide to join the school team in an attempt to make the friends you so _desperately_ crave. You're one of the school's few scholarship students, obvious from the state of your shoes. You were worried about making friends because you obviously lack the money they are so very accustomed to. You do, however, seem like a decent person, because you decided to attempt to say hello to me, despite the fact that they most certainly informed you of my "freakishness". That's enough about you, I think. As for me, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a freak. I have no friends, and nobody gives a damn what I think. So why don't you save yourself the trouble and avoid committing social suicide by trying to talk to me.", Sherlock said, immediately collecting his books and stalking off to find a new place to hide from his moronic peers, leaving a flabbergasted John in his wake.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry I haven't updated in a while, I had a bit of writer's block and wasn't really sure how this chapter was going to go. If you like the story give me a review (preferably on the writing style, since I'm not used to this kind of writing and I'm kinda nervous about how it's turning out, especially the dialogue), and feel free to make suggestions. Also, do you think I'm writing Sherlock well enough? It's tough to get his dialogue right so I'm sort of avoiding it!**

**Thanks!**

John stood there, mouth agape, watching the strange boy stalk away. How had he known all of that? He'd been right about everything...well almost everything. He had an older sister, not an older brother, but still. It was bloody incredible. Wait...Sherlock. That was the name that had been printed on his roommate assignment. With such an odd name, it was unlikely it could have meant anyone else. Great, got off on the wrong foot with his roommate. He turned around to see the other guys motioning to come back to the game, so he jogged back, the newly recovered ball under his arm. They played a little longer, but the other guys began to leave to get a quick shower in before classes started. John lingered though, waiting for Greg. He seemed to be the only boy that disliked calling Sherlock "freak", and John wondered why. From their brief encounter, it was obvious that Sherlock was a difficult person to be around, rather cold and unfriendly, but maybe Greg appreciated his talent for observation too. Greg, noticing John's lingering, spoke up.

"Look, I know the others told you Sherlock was a freak, and he sorta is. What he does makes people uncomfortable, but he doesn't deserve the things they say about him, no one does. I think that may have been the longest conversation I've seen him have without insulting someone. So, just a little advice. If you want to be his friend, keep it a secret. I won't tell anyone, I swear. But, honestly, I think you should at least try. It might be good for him because despite what he seems to think, he really does need a friend.", Greg told him, frowning slightly as he looked off into the distance, trying to spot where Sherlock had run off to now.

"Oh, well...um thanks for the advice then. I think I might try, considering he's my new roommate and all.", John replied.

"Well I don't envy you mate. Good luck with that.", Greg replied chuckling and walked off.

John quickly made his way back to his new dorm, grabbed some clean clothes, and hopped into the bathroom for a quick shower before his first classes started. He exited the bathroom ten minutes later, fully clothed and damp-haired. Sherlock still hadn't shown up yet, so John grabbed his bag and the map he had been given, and slowly made his way off to his first class.

John arrived to his first class, Chemistry, without a second to spare. Thankful he hadn't gotten too lost, he took the only remaining seat in the back of the room. His eyes flitted over to the boy sitting next to him, and it was none other than Sherlock. He was deeply immersed in another book, so John awkwardly cleared his throat. Those large, pale eyes quickly flitted up to John, and he scowled.

"What do you want.", he , obviously angered at being disturbed by the same boy twice in one day. People usually left him alone and that was how he liked it.

"Um...well I didn't really get a chance to introduce myself earlier. I'm your new roommate, John. I just transferred here.", he replied nervously.

"Obvious. I told you that already.", Sherlock said, resuming his bored tone of voice.

"Well um, I suppose you did. How did you do that anyway? It was incredible!", John whispered as the teacher entered the room.

A look of surprise passed over Sherlock's face, which he quickly hid behind his usual emotionless mask. Nobody ever thought what he did was incredible, nobody ever complimented him, people barely even spoke to him. Sherlock began to wonder if someone had paid off this new boy, asked him to pretend to be friends with the freak so they could just torture him some more. That had to be the answer, it was the only possible solution. Nobody would willingly be his friend, they'd have to be insane. Clamping his mouth shut, keeping it a straight white line, Sherlock ignored John's question and focused on the board. The lesson passed in silence between the two of them. John looked over at Sherlock several times, hoping that Sherlock would answer him when the lesson was over. When the bell rang, however, Sherlock collected his things quickly, and was the first one out of the room, leaving John standing there with his mouth open, as if to speak, for the second time in one day.


	4. Chapter 4

**New update! I thought I'd try to make this chapter a little longer since my other fic is now averaging 1,000+ words per chapter. Hope you all enjoy!  
Please read and review :)  
Oh yeah, I obviously don't own Sherlock...**

* * *

He dashed out of the hallway quicker than anyone else. People shouted abuse after him as shoved past them. Another, larger boy, one of his regular tormentors, shoved him roughly against the wall. The teachers that saw what was going on didn't seem to care, most of them had had Sherlock as a student at one point or another, and probably thought he deserved it for his arrogance. Face still set in his usual blank mask, he made his way out of the densely populated hallways and turned towards the doors that lead outside. He had History class next, and he surely wasn't going to be attending. He knew all the material anyway, he was forced to memorize it, which wasn't really all that hard. It was just another class full of insufferable know-it-all students that didn't really know-it-all. Worse, if that was even possible, were the teachers, who were so incompetent it hurt. They thought they were teaching these children valuable life skills, but they weren't. Some of them were so passionate about subjects that had no proper real world applications, those were the worst in his opinion. All the teachers made mistakes constantly, sometimes he was so bored he didn't even bother to correct them. He could do a better job in a heartbeat, not that he would anyways. He could probably make some money by tutoring the more dim students, but he didn't care to deal with them. He exited the school and wandered the grounds aimlessly, not knowing quite where he was going.

Finally, he found himself at one his old haunts. Right behind the library, which backed up directly to the forest, small foot trails led through the densely packed pine trees. He followed one of his favorite trails out of habit, eventually coming to a small clearing. A crumbling stone wall was surrounded by moss covered rocks. Fallen pine needles padded his stride, so he made no noise as he crossed over to the wall. Birds swooped overhead, calling out to each other, and squirrels chattered and climbed the tall trees that surrounded him. This was the place he would always escape to when all the stupidity surrounding him became too much to handle. He really did like nature, something most people would probably be shocked by. He was so pale, people must assume he spends his entire day inside, reading in some dark library somewhere. But, when the weather was acceptable (and even sometimes when it wasn't), he loved to be outside. It was really the seclusion, more than anything, the overwhelming peace he was able to feel out hear, the kind of peace he could never feel around the droves of loud-mouthed peers. He doubted anyone even knew this little paradise existed, so when he was here, he was alone.

He settled himself down on the low stone wall, and dug into his pockets until he found what he was looking for. He flipped open the box and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it deftly, obviously well-practiced, and exhaled deeply as the much needed nicotine filled his body, melting away his stress and agitation. If he got caught smoking here, he'd probably be in a lot of trouble, but he didn't have anything better to do and teachers never came out this far. Speaking of smoking, John probably wouldn't approve, he thought, taking another drag of his cigarette. An athlete and an aspiring doctor (obvious from the books he was carrying when he arrived in class: advanced level textbooks for Chemistry, Biology, and Anatomy), not a good combination to be roommates with an smoker. He wondered how long it would take John to notice his smoking, as well as his...other habits. None of which were strictly healthy. Shit, he really needed to stop thinking about his roommate. It was a lost cause, really. He'd already decided, without a doubt, that John's attempt wasn't genuine. It couldn't be. He'd seen him playing football with Anderson and all the other neanderthals that made his life a hell on earth, he must have hit it off with them well enough. It was obvious that John was a well-adjusted, totally and completely normal boy, and that he craved popularity, to be noticed, to have friends. Who would need to be friends with the freak when they were perfectly capable of making friends of his own? Only someone truly desperate would even consider being his friend. You'd have to be mentally unstable to be friends with the freak. God, he even referred to himself as "freak", he thought, grimacing behind the cigarette in his mouth. Just goes to show you how far this bullying he'd endured almost since birth had done to his mind. Even his family called him that, though he'd never admit it to anyone. Sighing, he ran his long, thin fingers through his hair and tapped the ash out of his cigarette. He lingered around his hideout until the end of the day's classes, nearly finishing his pack of cigarettes in the process. He'd need to get more soon. He regrettably made his way back to his dorm, he'd have to face John sooner or later.

* * *

John started his homework when he got back to his room. He hadn't seen Sherlock since Chemistry, even though several of his teacher's had called his name during roll call. John was a little worried when he didn't show up in class. He wasn't really sure why he was worried though, he'd know Sherlock for less than a day. There was just something about him, something that made John want to be his friend, to protect him from all the asshole bullies. Sighing and rubbing his temples, got up from the rather uncomfortable desk chair and flopped down on his bed to begin reading the novel for his English class. A few minutes later, the door opened and John lowered the book. Sherlock was standing awkwardly in the door way, leaning slightly against the frame. John finally got a good look at his new roommate now. Standing at his full height, which was rather tall, John could see how truly _thin _boy was. His startlingly low weight, combined with his ghostly pale skin and thorny dark hair gave him a shocking appearance that seemed to demand attention. He entered the room without a word, and began unpacking his things. His movements were quick and quiet, almost cat-like. John couldn't help watching, couldn't help to let his eyes wander along the other boy's lanky frame.

"I know you watching me...", Sherlock interrupted suddenly, barely whispering in a surprisingly deep voice.

Sherlock seemed so...different now. His sharp, cold appearance seemed to falter slightly. His voice was quiet now, and had lost all of the confidence it had commanded when Sherlock had told him all those things about himself. It also lacked the harsh tone from the last time they had spoken.

"Em...sorry. Look...Sherlock. I really did mean what I said. What you did was really incredible, at least I thought so. How did you do it?", John inquired, slightly more confident than in their previous encounters.

"Oh. Right. Well...I suppose I just notice things that other people don't. ", Sherlock mumbled quietly, looking away from John. If John could have seen Sherlock's face now, he'd have noticed a slight (but very noticeable considering his complexion) blush to his prominent cheekbones.

"Seriously Sherlock. I really did like it, you don't have to be...embarrassed about it or anything like that. We're gonna be roommates, so we might as well be friends too.", John said, smiling brightly.

"And who paid you off to say that! Stop lying, stop pretending you want to be around me because no one, not a single, solitary person in this entire school or maybe even this whole god damned planet, seems to be able to tolerate me!", Sherlock snapped angrily, turning to face John once again with burning eyes.

Refusing to falter under Sherlock's burning gaze, John replied calmly, "No one paid me off, no one is making me do this. I genuinely _want_ to be your friend. Why is that so hard to believe?"

Sherlock apologized for his outburst in a barely there whisper, and resumed to unpacking his things. He didn't really seem to have any personal items though. No photos of family, no posters to hang on the wall. John glanced over at his desk, where he'd hung up several photos of his mum and Harry (from when they were all happy, of course) and of his old friends from back home. He had a couple of posters on the wall above his bed from his favorite sports teams as well. But Sherlock's side of the room remained bare, save for the piles of books that seemed to have grown since John had first arrived in the room. On the bed, John noticed a immaculately kept music case, as well as several stacks of sheet music, some even looked hand-written.

"So...you play the violin then?", John asked, hoping to find out a little bit more about his new roommate without pushing him back into the anger.

Sherlock nodded, and began fiddling with the clasp on the side of the case.

"That's cool, I guess. Would you mind maybe playing something for me?", John asked, hoping he wasn't pushing to hard.

"Uh, sure.", Sherlock said, a little bit louder this time.

He popped open the case to reveal an absolutely gorgeous instrument. The wood was freshly polished, and it was obvious that Sherlock cared for his violin more than anything. He pulled out the violin carefully, and began play. The piece was something he'd composed himself a long time ago, a slow, sad melody he often played when he needed to think. The repetitive nature of the piece always seemed to do wonders for his tangled thoughts. He closed his eyes, as to not see John's face, and let his fingers glide gracefully along the strings on muscle memory alone. John just sat there on his bed, completely awestruck. He'd never heard anything like this in his whole life. He'd never seen anyone so completely at ease, so confident in their body's movements. As the melody trailed off, Sherlock opened his pale eyes to regard John. All John could manage was a smile, he had no words to describe what he'd just heard. John was shocked to see a small ghost of a smile cross the somber boys face, and his eyes sparkled in the dim light of the setting sun, visible just outside their window. Maybe John really did want to be his friend, Sherlock thought to himself. Maybe he didn't have to be alone after all...


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry I haven't updated in forever :( I hope this chapter sort of makes up for it! I hope you all enjoy and thanks for all the positive reviews!  
**_**Trigger**_** Warning: triggers for self harm and eating disorders in this chapter **

**I don't own Sherlock...though I wish I did**

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The next few days passed pretty quickly for John. The lessons here were much tougher than the ones at his old school, but it was nothing he couldn't manage. Being in such high level classes (especially in his sciences) meant that John saw Sherlock (who was thankfully attending classes daily now) pretty often throughout the course of the school day. When they arrived back at the room, they'd do their homework, usually in silence. Sometimes Sherlock would help John out a bit, and sometimes Sherlock would play the violin. But mostly they were silent. Sherlock never actually talked to him in class though, or even acknowledged his existence. So during the school day, he regrettably hung out with Anderson and his friends. He hated the way they talked about Sherlock and spent most of his day wishing he could bash the smug boy's head in. Finally, one day when they were hanging around their room together, John decided to ask Sherlock why he never talked to John outside their room.

"Just trying to protect you...that's all. You see what I have to deal with on a daily basis, and I don't want you to have to deal with that as well," he replied, his voice had gotten much more confident over the past few days.

John looked over to see Sherlock sprawled out on his bed, face in a book as usual. It was incredible the way all of his hard exterior seemed to melt when John was the only one in the room. Sometimes, when they were alone together, Sherlock would smile and once, he even laughed, a deep, rich chuckle that warmed John's heart. It was good to see him a little happier. John just wished Sherlock could understand that he didn't care what the other people thought, that Sherlock could feel free to approach him outside their shared space, that John would sit with him at lunch and work with him on projects in class. Speaking of their lunch seating arrangement, there was something else worrying John too. Whenever he saw Sherlock in the dining hall (which was rare anyways, he seemed to avoid it at all costs), he never seemed to be eating. Most guys their age inhaled food, they'd eat just about anything, John could see as much from the dining table he sat at. But John wasn't sure if, in the whole week he'd know Sherlock, he'd ever seen him eat an entire meal. Sometimes John would see him with an apple or something like that, but never anything substantial. He took a moment to regard his roommate and newfound friend for what seemed to be the thousandth time. Shaggy, pitch black curly hair. Thin, ghostly pale face with prominent cheekbones. Sparkling blue-gray eyes that looked green in certain light. But it was the rest of his body that worried John. He mostly covered up outside of their room, electing to add his own black wool trench coat on top of the standard issue school blazer. But when they were in their room, John could see how thin he truly was, dangerously so, practically the definition of underweight He was entirely composed of sharp, boney angles, and sometimes John swore he could see the protrusion of his ribcage when he wore the long-sleeved t-shirts he slept in. Did he have an eating disorder or something, John thought worriedly to himself. He couldn't bear to confront Sherlock about it though. Their newly forged bond was still tenuous at best. One wrong move and John was afraid that Sherlock would recede back into his cold shell. He just couldn't risk it yet, so he settled on watching Sherlock a little more, making sure his suspicions were true. Maybe later he could confront him on it, when their relationship was stronger...

* * *

John and Sherlock's friendship grew stronger and stronger over the next few weeks. John was able to elicit warmer, more genuine smiles out of Sherlock. More laughs as well. He did have a really incredible laugh, soft and deep and warm. He had even convinced Sherlock to acknowledge him outside of class. John couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's progress in the few short weeks. He knew what Sherlock had been like before he'd met John, he'd seen the cold shell, the hollow eyes, and he'd heard the quiet, frankly shy voice. Sighing to himself as he walked into Chemistry, he waved hello to Greg, who he had gotten pretty close to in these first few weeks as well, and took his usual seat next to Sherlock. But Sherlock wasn't in his seat. John's brow furrowed. He'd seen Sherlock just this morning, right before he left for the dining hall for breakfast. He'd seemed fine, not sick or anything. He hadn't cut class since the first day either. The lesson began, interrupting his train of thought.

Sherlock hadn't show up to any of their other shared classes as well, and John was worried. When the bell rang, signaling the end of the day, John dashed up the room. Sherlock wasn't there either. He heard a noise coming from the bathroom, and quickly crossed the room. He stopped in front of the door, and knocked lightly, calling out to Sherlock...

* * *

Sherlock was sitting on the floor by the toilet when he heard John enter the room. But it didn't matter, he'd made sure he locked the door. Letting out a slow, shaky breath, he gripped the razor in his hand a little tighter. He brought it down onto the already scarred flesh of his inner arm once again, adding another cut to the multitude of fresh slashes that trailed up his arm, and immediately feeling the rush he craved. He let the razor drop to the tiled floor, and grabbed a wad of toilet paper, pressing it to the cuts. He heard John knock lightly on the door, calling out his name. Shit. He put the blade back in its box and shoved it behind the toilet and got up stiffly, crossing the room to the sink. He washed the dried blood from his hands and arm, wincing slightly as the water ran over the cuts. He popped open the medicine cabinet, and placed a fresh plaster on his arm. When he caught sight of his own face in the mirror, he winced once again. The bruises around his eyes and cheekbones were still fresh from the beating he'd received only hours ago from Anderson and his thugs. His lip was split rather painfully, and his ribs may be bruised, judging by the slight twinge he felt whenever he twisted the wrong way. Checking himself one last time, and rolling down the sleeve of his button down to hide the plaster, he called out to John that he'd be out in a minute. Shit, his voice sounded weaker than usual. He didn't want to leave the bathroom. He knew John would overreact to the beating. Frankly, Sherlock was used to them now, he'd gotten them often enough. But John, ever loyal John, would go off running to the disciplinary officer or the headmistress, or even worse, to confront Anderson and the other bullies. He fidgeted once more with his sleeve before opening the door and entering the room.

* * *

One look at Sherlock and John wanted to explode. A million questions rolled off his lips. Was he okay? What had happened? Who'd done this to him? John crossed the room quickly, blabbering the entire time. Sherlock just sat down on the edge of his bed, glancing up at John's worried face, opening his mouth to speak but having nothing come out. John sank down next to him, and stretched one hand out to brush the bruises on his friend's face while the other went to grip Sherlock's trembling hands. Sherlock flinched away from the contact immediately.

"John...please stop. It's not a big deal, really, it um...happens all the time. It was Anderson and a bunch of his mates...they jumped me right before class so I just hid up here the rest of the day...I just didn't want to face them. Sorry if I worried you, but I'll be fine, just some bruises, nothing more than that," Sherlock practically whispered, not looking John in the eyes.

Turning Sherlock to face him, John forced Sherlock to look into his eyes, "Sherlock...this is definitely not okay. We need to tell someone...the headmistress, a teacher, anyone. You don't deserve this...,"he said in a stern voice, trailing off at the end.

Sherlock flinched even harder as John's hand moved to the arm that he'd cut. He twisted out of John's grip and left the room, slamming the door on his way out. Shit, what was John supposed to do now. He'd ruined everything, pushed Sherlock too far. He considered running after him, but that might just make things worse. Getting up, he headed into the bathroom, what he needed right now was a nice warm shower to calm him down. He grabbed a set of clean clothes and set them on the countertop. He was just about to turn the hot water on full blast when he noticed a something strange behind the toilet. He kneeled down and pulled out a small, ornately carved wooden box. He didn't really want to pry...but he was really concerned about Sherlock. Forgetting all about his shower, he set the box on the floor. He opened up the box to reveal several razor blades of varying sizes, the largest of which was still flecked in fresh blood...

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**Aww, poor Sherlock! What is John going to do now that he's found out about Sherlock's little problems?! You'll just have to wait until the next update to find out ;) See you all soon!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Here's a new update everyone! Hope you enjoy!  
****_Warning_**** : self harm, bullying, child abuse, mild language**

**I don't own Sherlock...duh.**

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He made his way down the hallway as quickly as possible. He shoved people out of his way, head down to hide the tears flowing freely down his cheeks. He just ran and ran until he couldn't run anymore. Finally, he found himself at his usual clearing, a place he could always go to when he needed to be alone. He settled down on the wall and brought his knees up to his chin. He buried his face in his legs and sobbed relentlessly. Not his usual, silent tears that flowed down his cheeks in the middle of the night, but great, heaving sobs, memories of the past few hours flooding back to him...

_"Well, well, well. Look what we've got here! It the freak," Anderson shouted, addressing the small group of guys that had begun surrounding Sherlock. _

_He grabbed Sherlock by the collar, shoving him roughly up against the brick wall. His head smacked hard against the wall, but his face remained a mask through the pain. The other students began shouting at him, laughing and calling him cruel names. Freak. Creep. Weirdo. Psychopath. Fag. Nothing he hadn't heard before though, nothing he wasn't used to, nothing he didn't get on a daily basis. When they'd exhausted all their insults, Anderson threw a wild punch at Sherlock's face, hitting him square on the cheek and snapping his head back against the wall. His momentary daze was interrupted by Anderson kicking him in the shins, bringing him to the ground. One of the other unnamed faces hauled him to his feet and pinned his arms behind his back, allowing Anderson to resume kicking, aiming at his gut. He fell back to the ground wheezing, the wind knocked out of him, struggled wildly against the neanderthal holding him down. A well-placed kick to the head was all it took to make him see stars. _

_He fell to the ground with a resounding thump, head thwacking the pavement once again, and as he slowly faded into unconsciousness, he heard Anderson whisper menacingly in his ear "Your little boyfriend John can't help you now, can he," smiling his wicked, smug smile as he and the others walked off, laughing wildly._

_He woke up perhaps an hour later, his face sore from being pressed against the rough pavement for so long. He hurt all over, and his head was killing him. He brought a hand up into his hair, and it came back streaked with blood. Great. He got up slowly, clutching his ribs as each movement of his body made the twinge painfully, and decided to make his way back to his room to clean himself up. Every step was painful, each breath burned his lungs, but he eventually made it back, and ended up collapsing on the bathroom floor. Eventually, he came to for the final time, and took a quick shower to wash out all the blood. After his shower, he laid sprawled out his bed, closing his eyes. All the memories of his previous beating at the hands of his peers (and even those at the hands of his father) flashed before his eyes in an endless stream. Tossing and turning, he finally realized what he needed to do to make himself feel better, to stop reliving all those painful memories. Did he have time? He lazily checked his watch. Yeah, he had plenty of time. He made his way to the bathroom and collapsed down by the toilet, pulling out the box that held one of his darkest secrets. When he finally felt the kiss of the steel on his skin, his face spread into a small smile..._

Shaking himself out of the painful flashbacks, he realized something. He couldn't do this anymore. He just couldn't. Having someone care about him in the way John did...it wasn't a feeling he was used to. John was pleasant company, and John really did enjoy having him around, but he didn't want John to get to close, to start prying in his private life. If John ever found out the mess he hid behind his calloused shell, if John ever found out about his habits...John would run away faster than anyone. Nobody could care about someone so broken, so damaged. He was doomed to walk this world alone, that was just how it was supposed to be, and he just had to deal with that. When he got back to the room, he would make it clear that he didn't want to speak to him anymore, didn't want to continue their...friendship. He'd just have to push him away...go back to the way things were before...

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John sat on the edge of his bed, taunt as a wire. His hands trembled slightly as he held the wooden box tightly in his hands. His eyes were closed and all John could think about was Sherlock. Sherlock being bruised and beaten by Anderson. Sherlock with these blades pressed to his skin, blood dripping down his arms onto the white tiled floor. Sherlock feeling so depressed and alone and broken that he had to harm himself to feel better. It made him actually feel sick to think about it. He laid the box down on Sherlock's bed and moved over to his own and began reading, waiting for Sherlock to return so he could confront him.

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He wasn't sure how long he'd sat on the wall, gazing off into the distance. Wasn't sure how long he'd cried. But when he eventually hopped down, it was dark outside. But he didn't need any light, he thought as he picked his way carefully through the woods. He knew every rock, root, and boulder on these trails from memory. The wind howled around him, and he hugged his arms tighter around his thin body, cursing himself silently for forgetting to grab his coat. It was freezing outside. He slowly made his way back to his room. He was shivering madly when he finally reached his door, out of anxiety or cold he wasn't sure. Shaky fingers (tinged slightly blue, he thought worriedly) reached out to grasp the door knob, and turned it lightly. Maybe he'd be able to slip into the room without John knowing...

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John immediately sat up when he heard the footsteps outside the door. It had been _hours _since Sherlock had stormed out. John noticed the door knob turn lightly, and he set his book down on his bed while getting up to meet Sherlock at the door. Sherlock, obviously hoping to slip into the room unnoticed, had his head held down and nearly bumped into John. His pale blood-shot eyes, ringed with dark purple-red bruises, flashed up at John and immediately went back to staring at the ground. His face was in its set behind his usual cold mask, his emotions guarded. John stepped aside, motioning for Sherlock to see the box on the edge of his bed. Sherlock's face got even paler, if that was even possible, and a look of absolute fear crossed over his face before being hidden away again. John gripped Sherlock's stick-thin arms firmly, and led him to his bed. He wrapped a blanket around him, hoping to warm him up, and knelt on the floor in front of his friend.

He took both of Sherlock's wrists in his hands before beginning in a stern but kind and calm voice, "Sherlock...please Sherlock. Look at me, mate. I found the box. I know what you do to yourself. Please, I just want to help you, you're my friend, you really are. And I know you don't eat either, so don't pretend you do. Please mate, just tell me why you think you have to do this to yourself..."

John watched the tears drip off Sherlock's face, and motioned to roll up Sherlock's sleeve. He caught sight of Sherlock's face and saw him nod almost imperceptibly. John carefully rolled the sleeve, and kneeled there in stunned silence. Sherlock's arm was a mess of scars and fresher cuts, the most recent of which was still covered by a plaster.

"Are there any more?" John questioned in a quiet voice.

Sherlock yanked his other shirt sleeve up, revealing just as many cuts on the opposite arm. He pulled up the leg of his trousers to reveal deeper scars on his ankles, and he then untucked his shirt and pulled it up slightly, revealing way to prominent hip bones dashed by clusters of ever deeper scars. Sherlock sat there, waiting for John to get up and leave him. Waiting for John to start shouting about how much of a freak he was. Waiting for John to run down to the headmistress requesting a room transfer, anything to get away from the freak...

But John didn't do any of those things, he pulled Sherlock into a tight hug, feeling the genius clutch him just as tightly and sob into his shoulder, and whispered into his best mate's ear, "I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

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**Well, hope you all enjoyed! As always, please leave a review! **


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry for not updating guys :(**

**Hope you all enjoy though, and thanks for the repeat reviewers and all the support!**

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Eventually, Sherlock came around to their friendship. He realized that John wasn't going to leave him, that he didn't care when Anderson and his brutish gang started picking on him too or when people refused to talk to him. He realized that John truly cared about him and wanted to see him happy. And even if it shocked him, he had to embrace it now. He'd tried to push John away for fear of being abandoned, but John just kept coming back. He just had to accept that John wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, so he did. He got used to the nights where John would force him to roll up his sleeves to check for cuts. He got used to the feeling of being stood up for. He got used to their friendship, to calling John his friend and being referred to as a friend himself. The days stretched into weeks, and the weeks stretched into months. Their lessons made the time pass even quicker. John forced Sherlock to attend his classes daily, and Sherlock made sure John aced every one of his tests. They spent their free time walking the grounds, though Sherlock never did have the courage to take John to his secret haunts, or reading idly in their room. Sometimes Sherlock would play the violin, and John would listen intently, savoring the beautiful sounds. And for a while, Sherlock was truly happy for what seemed like the first time in his entire life. But the time Sherlock had been dreading ever since their friendship began loomed on the horizon. Christmas holiday. God he hated the holidays. Holidays meant having to go home. Having to spend time with his severe father, cold mother and overbearing, pompous brother. Having to behave himself and not ruin the family name at the stuffy, posh parties his parents held every year. Having to suffer through a beating if he ignored his father's many rules of conduct. Why did people enjoy the holidays anyway? Nothing but stress, forced cheer, and boring family reunions that people pretended to like but secretly hated. But worst of all, Christmas holiday would mean spending two weeks away from John. Two whole weeks in the most miserable place imaginable without his only friend to keep him grounded...

John picked up on Sherlock's feelings almost immediately. Quite frankly, he wasn't sure if he wanted to go home either. It's not that he didn't want to see his mum because he really did. He missed her far more than he had expected to, though he would never admit it to anyone. But going home would probably mean seeing Harry (who'd probably be drunk) and being surrounded by all the stupid memories of his dad. This was going to be their first Christmas without him around, and he knew it would be hard on his mum, so staying at school wasn't really an option. He was more worried about Sherlock though. Two weeks away would be hard on the both of them, and John was scared that Sherlock would go back to his old habits. Sherlock had been clean three months, ever since John had found out about his self harming. He'd made sure of it. He really didn't want to see all of their progress ruined by a mere two weeks apart. And from what he understood, Sherlock's family situation wasn't the best, and he knew that going home probably wasn't very happy for him either. He had to figure out something, so he decided to call his mum for some advice. She suggested to invite Sherlock over for the holidays. Why hadn't he thought of that? It was such an obvious solution! They'd both be able to have a happy Christmas, and John could keep an eye on Sherlock. Smiling to himself, John bounded into their room, only to find Sherlock sprawled on his bed, reading a textbook. Typical. Rolling his eyes and smiling, John snatched the book from his friend's hand, gaining a shout in protest.

"Got any plans for the holiday?", John questioned Sherlock, still smiling.

"Not really...just going home."

"Well, if you can get out of it, my mum invited you to spend Christmas with us!"

A surprised expression passed over Sherlock's face, but was hidden away quickly. Even after all the progress they had made together, Sherlock was still reluctant to show too many emotions. But John had gotten used to the constant blank looks occasionally cut with Sherlock's infectious, though rarely genuine, smiles.

"Oh...well um, I guess I could call them now and ask...," Sherlock stuttered out, getting up from the bed (stretching like a cat) and going out into the hallway to make the call.

John collapsed on his bed, mentally preparing the list of the things he'd need to pack, and when he could leave school (with or without Sherlock). He was in the middle of figuring out when he would be able to get to town to buy gifts when Sherlock came back in the room, the smile on his face the most genuine John had ever seen from him.

"Soooooo?" John asked, quirking a smile, already knowing the answer.

Sherlock nodded in reply, still smiling.

"Better start packing then!", he told Sherlock, giving him a playful punch on the arm as he left the room to call his mum to tell her the good news, already wondering what he should get Sherlock for Christmas.

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**Well guys, I hope you liked the new chapter! Please review!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry I haven't updated in a while! No excuses, just really busy. Hope everyone enjoys!**

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A few days later, on the last day of term, Sherlock and John were leaning against one of the bare trees at the front of the school, bags that were stuffed nearly to bursting at their feet, waiting for John's mom to pick them up. The passing students gave them dirty looks and shouted insults at the duo, and one particular group, probably Anderson's, had pelted the backs of their heads with snowballs. But none of that mattered because Sherlock was happier and more excited than he had been in a long time, maybe ever. He wasn't going to have to resort to his old vices to make it through the holidays, he was getting to spend it with John. Sure he was a bit nervous since he was going to meet John's mum. John had never said anything bad about her, and Sherlock didn't plan on being rude or anything, but he could never predict how adults would react to him. Most of them didn't like him, same as all the students, but a few were able to look past his social issues and see the mind beneath. He really hoped John's mum would be okay with him, and if John was anything like her, he was sure she would be.

Most of the students were already gone when John's mum pulled up. She exited the car quickly, and practically ran up to John, pulling him into a tight hug. She was rather short, only slightly taller than her son, with ashy blonde, shoulder length hair, and wearing a light gray pea coat. When John finally managed to disentangle himself from the hug, he was bright red, blushing furiously. Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle. Even though that sort of affection baffled him, he saw no reason for John to be embarrassed by his mother. Nobody else around them cared if John's mum hugged him, and frankly, Sherlock though he was lucky to have family like this. Straightening up after fusing over John's scarf and coat and making sure he had all his things packed, she turned to Sherlock.

"You must be Sherlock! Oh John's told me so much about you and I was so glad when he told me you'd be joining us!"

Sherlock was momentarily startled by her cheerfulness, but managed a strained smile in return. He certainly wasn't used to being treated in such a friendly way, and he wondered if John had told his mom about his...issues. He hadn't know her long enough to decide if she was being nice to him because of all that or if she was just a generally nice person. In the meantime, John and Sherlock managed to stuff their bags in the trunk and climbed into the car, ready for the long drive ahead of them.

John's mom talked the entire time. Literally the entire car ride, which lasted several hours. She asked all about John, his studies, how his teachers were. Things got a little awkward when she asked about John's other friends, considering he didn't have any, but nothing was worse than when she tried asking Sherlock about his family. He didn't want to seem rude, so he had to give some sort of answer, but he really wasn't sure what kind of answer to give. He couldn't be totally honest, couldn't possibly tell her about all the abuse, be it emotional or physical. So he decided to lie. His parents were stern and expected only the best from him, but they cared about him deeply and just wanted to see him succeed. His brother was a little annoying, but still cared too. Sherlock could feel John's piercing gaze, and prayed that the lie would be enough for John's mom. He knew it wouldn't be enough for John though. Thankfully, she dropped the subject, and began talking about all the things that had been going on around town while John was gone. How his old friends were always asking about him. How his old school's rugby team had won the championship. Sherlock was able to tune all these ramblings out, and resigned himself to staring out the window and watching the icy trees pass by.

Sherlock was awoken by his daze by John prodding his shoulder, signaling that they'd reached their destination. Sherlock got out of the car, stretching his cramped legs out, and looked around. John's house nice, perhaps a bit small, and certainly not what he was used to, but still nice. It was a freshly painted white, and had a large porch on the front. The walkway up to the small steps was lined with what would have been immaculately kept flower beds had it been spring. Sherlock grabbed his bag from the trunk, swinging it over his shoulder, and heading up to the house behind Sherlock and his mum. The inside was nice and cozy, stairs right off the front door led upstairs, with the kitchen and sitting room down a small hallway. Nothing like his own house, which was filled with pointless rooms and ridiculously expensive antique furniture that you really weren't supposed to sit on. He remembered being punished particularly badly after getting the expensive carpet in the one of six sitting rooms muddy. He stood rather awkwardly in by the front door until John's mum spoke up.

"Why don't you two head upstairs and get settled while I get dinner on."

John nodded and lead Sherlock up to his room. It wasn't much different from John's room back at school, similar posters and photos covered the walls. His desk was littered with old papers and books he hadn't packed, and his bed was freshly made. There was a small telly in the corner of the room attached to gaming system, along with a large stack of games. He set his bags down on the floor near the cot John's mum had set up next to John's bed. He could still feel John staring at him, so he turned around to face his friend, already having some idea of where the conversation was going.

"Why did you lie to mum about my family?"

"Who said I was lying," Sherlock snapped, averting his eyes.

"I just have a hard time believing that you were telling the truth considering the way you were acting. You know you can be honest with me, right?"

Sherlock sighed, dropping down onto the cot and looking up at John. "I guess I was lying a little...my parents are not to fond of me and are rarely affectionate, if at all. My father...he's just difficult to deal with, but it's not a big deal, really. I don't know why I lied, I just...," he trailed off at the end, swallowing hard, trying to get rid of the annoying lump in his throat.

"It's okay, Sherlock, really it's fine. Thanks for telling the truth, and for the record, your parents are morons for not caring about you."

The night passed quickly. Dinner was delicious, and Sherlock made a point to eat and not just push it around his plate, even though he wasn't particularly hungry. He'd been making it a point to eat more often, for John's sake. John's mum, who insisted on being called Rachel from now on, made polite dinner conversation. Dinner at his own home was always eaten in silence or alone, and the conversation was a nice change in pace, even if he wasn't too great at it. He tried to smile, to answer her questions as truthfully as he could. He really wanted Rachel to like him. Eventually after a few more hours of telly, the boys decided to go to bed, and while John fell asleep the second his head hit the pillow, Sherlock couldn't sleep so easily. He got up from his bed quietly, careful not to wake John, and stalked over to the corner where his bags now lay. He took a few things out, and settled into the small armchair in the corner and began work on John's Christmas present.

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**Happy Christmas fun time coming soon! I think I'll start dealing the growing romantic feelings in the next chapter, especially through Sherlock's Christmas gift for John. Please review if you enjoyed and feel free to comment or PM me with any suggestions!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry I haven't updated in a while, been busy with some other writings!**

**Hope you all enjoy, and thanks to everyone who who has favorited and followed this story, especially those who have left reviews, because you make my writing worthwhile!**

**Mentions of self-harm, abuse, and drug use in this chapter...**

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The hours passed ridiculously quickly, and Sherlock didn't sleep at all. Finally, around nine in the morning, John's mother knocked on the door before opening it a crack, peaking in.

"Oh! How long have you been up?" she asked, surprised to see him up when John was still fast asleep, sprawled across the bed, one arm hanging off the side.

"Not long," he said lying, spreading his lips in a thin smile that wasn't really genuine.

She smiled brightly at him, "Well, whenever you're ready, come downstairs for some breakfast."

After she closed the door, Sherlock got up from his chair, and stowed his nearly-completed present in his suitcase. He crossed the room and shook John's shoulder, only getting incoherent mumbles from his friend.

"I'll be down in a minute," John mumbled into his pillow, and Sherlock chuckled.

He made his way down to the kitchen, and plopped down at the table, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to flatten it. A plate full of eggs and toast was placed in front of him, along with a steaming mug of tea. Sherlock groaned inwardly. He couldn't just not eat, it would seem...rude. He managed to choke down a portion of his own before Rachel sat down across from him with a plate and mug of her own. They ate in silence, but eventually, Sherlock noticed the kind woman staring at him, more specifically, his arms. Oh, right. Short sleeves. Ever since John had found out about his self-harming, he'd become much more lax about covering up in his friend's presence. He still wore his customary coat or button-down around school, but in their room, he often didn't bother. He liked to think it put John at ease as well, constantly being reminded that Sherlock was doing better and that he didn't need to hurt himself anymore. But now his prominent scars were displayed to her, and John obviously hadn't told her.

Putting down his own fork, he hugged his arms closer to his body before assuring Rachel, "I don't do it anymore, I haven't in months. John...you can't begin to imagine how much he's done for me, how much he's helped me. I was so alone before he came along... but I'm not alone anymore. I don't think I'll ever be able to repay him for everything he's given up to help me..."

Just then, John walked through the doorway, stretching and yawning at the same time. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the stray tears leaking from the corners of his mum's eyes. She pulled her son into a tight hug, wiping the tears away with the heel of her hand, and smiled at the two boys. John quirked a questioning eyebrow at Sherlock, who just replied with a tentative smile before taking a surprisingly large bite of toast.

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The next few days before Christmas passed quickly. John and Sherlock would take walks into town, and John purchased Christmas presents for his mother, as well as Sherlock. While John was off in one of the shops, Sherlock got Rachel a gift as well, even though neither of the Watson's would probably expect it. Several times they ran into John's old friends. All football and rugby players, all the types of people that would probably despise Sherlock if they knew him long enough. But they didn't say anything apart from the questioning looks at the thin, pale boy who would never in a million years be their friend. Their nights were spent downstairs, sitting by the fire with hot mugs of tea, watching telly and laughing together, or else battling the throes of zombies or aliens or whatever they were in John's favorite games. What surprised John the most though, was how different Sherlock had become. He was laughing more than ever now, and smiling just as often. He was eating more too, nearly always clearing his plates. It was nice to see his best friend so happy and healthy.

Finally, Christmas Eve rolled around, and the Watson's and the single Holmes' decorated the tree together. Sherlock laughed at all the silly Christmas stories Rachel and John told, though he was regrettably unable to contribute his own. His family had never believed in celebrating holidays, apart from the all-too extravagant parties his parents threw out of business necessity. They would set up a tall tree that they paid someone to decorate, and drink and eat and other boring things. Sherlock, from a young age, was always expected to attend and behave properly. Not once in his life had he awakened excited on Christmas morning, since his parents had never really bought him a proper present. Most of the time he awoke still sore, bruises standing out against his pale skin, yet to fade from the sound beating he got after misbehaving (yet again) at his parent's parties. In his early childhood, his insufferable brother had tried to give him a proper Christmas, with presents and everything, but it wasn't the same without family. After break, he would make up some sort of lies when all the teachers at school asked him how his holidays had been and ignore the chattering children, all bubbling over with excitement, telling their friends all about their holiday adventures. Eventually, Mycroft stopped coming home for Christmas, electing to stay at school and study instead. After he graduated, he would come to the dinner parties if he could, but was never there in the morning. And so, Sherlock's Christmas experiences had gotten progressively worse over the years, the last one being particularly bad, seeing as his father spent it violently drunk and Sherlock spent it under the influence of a certain substance not even John knew he took. He had woken up the next morning, feeling like absolute shit and covered in bruises and scrapes, coming down from his chemically-induced high. But it wasn't like that this time (and Sherlock hoped it never would have to be), everything was different at the Watson house, and when Sherlock went to sleep, he was genuinely excited for the day to come.

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**Happy Christmas morning times to come! But be warned, it's all downhill from there :( I've got some plans and they aren't particularly nice ones**

**As always, thanks for taking time to read this, and PLEASE leave a review telling me what you think!**

**Hope to update soon! *BYE***


	10. Chapter 10

**Hello readers!**

**Thanks for all the incredible support, especially to my reviewers and everyone who favorites and followers my story! **

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Sherlock was awoken early on Christmas morning by John throwing pillows at his head.

"Get up you idiot!" John shouted happily

Sherlock rolled over, grumbling as another pillow smacked him in the face, and propped himself up on his elbows. He looked over at John, letting a bemused smile split across his face. With that, John bolted from the room, Sherlock following quickly behind him. They arrived in the kitchen first, to plates piled high with Rachel's most delicious breakfast yet. Sherlock ate more that morning than he had in a long while, there had been weeks in the past where he'd eaten this much or even less. After breakfast, they all gathered around the tree. John's mum tried to snap several photos, but John just rolled his eyes and laughed, no longer embarrassed by his mum's behavior. Rachel opened her presents from John first, a bottle of nice, flowery perfume and a new scarf. When Sherlock handed her his present, a surprised look crossed over her face.

"Oh you didn't have to get me anything!"

Sherlock simply smiled and gestured for her to open it. He'd gotten her a new pair of gardening gloves and several packets of wildflowers seeds after noticing how much she enjoyed gardening. It had be obvious really, but Rachel was still incredibly surprised at such a thoughtful and appropriate present from someone she'd know for only a few days.

"How did you know?" she questioned, smile spread wide across her face.

"I noticed. It's just something I do, notice things about people. They don't usually like it though, expect for him," he replied, pointing to John and grinning.

Rachel pulled Sherlock into tight hug, and for once, he actually hugged someone back.

Sherlock opened John's present next, a set of leather-bound classic horror books. He smiled at the appropriate gift, John had obviously noticed Sherlock's taste for the macabre. John started opening his gifts next. Some video games, a couple of new jumpers and pairs of socks, as well as a few books. Sherlock began to panic (internally, of course) as John neared his gift. What if he thought it was weird? What if he didn't like it? Swallowing as John reached for the last gift in the pile, he wanted nothing more than to bolt out of the house and hide somewhere.

John peeled back the paper on his last present, one from Sherlock, revealing a small, black sketch book. Eyebrows furrowed, he flipped the book open. It was full of the most beautiful charcoal drawings John had ever seen. Landscapes of their school, the dorm hall, the grounds around it that they'd walked so often. The outline of himself standing alone in front of their dorm hall, two lone figures standing under a large tree with it's leaves bringing the only color into the drawing. A person sitting on the edge of a bed, a small box clutched in their hand. John leaning on the floor in front of Sherlock, gripping his wrists. The two of them laughing together. The final few being drawings of John's home, the outside, the fireplace, his room. Finally reaching the end, a few loose pages fell out, and John noticed a note on the final page. He opened up the loose pages first, and registered Sherlock's untidy scrawl...and music notes? Handwritten sheet music. Sherlock had composed something for him? About him? Tearing his eyes away from the sheet music, he began reading the note.

**Dear John, **

**When I was faced with the prospect of giving you a gift, I was at a complete loss. I don't have much experience with gift-giving, seeing as my family isn't the most affectionate or sentimental. I didn't just want to get you something meaningless, you mean too much to me for that. I've been doing these sketches for a while now, just using them as something to keep my mind off things and kind of let out my emotions in a healthier way. Music always helps as well. So I though you might like them. A piece of me, something to always remind you that you are my friend, my first friend, and maybe the only one I'll ever have. I hope this gift can show you how much you mean to me, and how glad I am that you didn't give up on me like everyone else seems too. I was so alone before I met you, and you saved me from myself. I don't know if I would still be here if it wasn't for you. You mean the world to me, more than you could ever imagine, and I don't want to think about what my life would be like without you. So thanks for everything you've done for me, for being my friend and for helping me find a reason to stay.**

**Sherlock**

John felt tears rolling down his face at that last part. Sometimes he didn't realize how alone Sherlock had been, how horrible things he'd gone through. He'd always seemed so put together, so calm, and John had never realized that Sherlock had been suicidal when they'd met. He didn't want to think about that. He'd thought that his self-harming was just something he did to release stress and emotion, he couldn't (no, didn't) want to think about Sherlock sitting on the floor of the bathroom, trying to work up the courage to end it. Wiping his tears away, John looked over at Sherlock, who was sitting on the floor, knees draw up to his chest, staring at the floor. John just shook his head and smiled, chuckling as he pulled Sherlock into hug. He was never going anywhere, and he was going to make sure that his wonderful, brilliant, genius best friend was never in such a horrible place again.

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**Awww :) Sweet Sherlock and John moments!**

**Thanks for reading, and PLEASE leave a review with any criticisms or ideas. I'm a little...excited(?)...at where I'm going to be taking this story. I don't know how much longer it's going to be, definitely quite a few more chapters.**

**Hope to update soon! BYE :D**


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you so much to everyone who is enjoying this story, I wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't for you guys! I can't believe how much this story has grow, I never expected it to come this far. I started writing this over a month ago, and I am so grateful for all the support. So thanks for everything, and this story is far from over!**

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Everything was over in the blink of an eye. Christmas. Easter at the Watson home. Final exams to revise for. Summer drew nearer, and Sherlock wanted to completely shut down. He didn't want anything to change. He didn't want to pack up their room, shove all the memories into boxes and suitcases that would just be sent back to the house that never really felt like home (and that he had never actually called home, even when he was small). He didn't want to go back to his old, lonely life, didn't want to have to face his father again for the first time in almost ten months. But, more than anything, Sherlock didn't want to say goodbye to John. He knew it was stupid, that goodbyes were never really forever. He knew that he would see John again in the fall. But he was terrified. Terrified of his father. He wanted to be brave, he wanted to be confident in the fact that he was strong enough to resist. He wanted to take all the strength and confidence John's friendship had given him, and stand up for himself. He wasn't a freak anymore, his father's harsh words couldn't hurt him now, could they?. But he was being too optimistic. His father would break him, he was sure. He would undo all Sherlock's progress, and turn him back into a ghost. He wanted to believe that his memories were strong enough to anchor him, and that he would start drifting again. Falling apart again scared him. If he fell apart this time, it would be so much worse. He knew what friendship was like now, what it felt like to have someone you could tell anything, how it felt to have someone there for you whenever you needed them. He couldn't go back to being alone, it would kill him. But Sherlock couldn't tell John. John was worried enough as it was, and Sherlock couldn't bear to tell him that he wouldn't come back to school and still be the same friend, no matter what he did. So all he could do now was resume his old, shielded self. Set his face in a blank mask and pretend that nothing hurt him anymore, even if it hurt worse now more than ever.

The night before they were set to leave was the worst. John didn't know what to say to comfort Sherlock. He assured his friend that he would always be there, that he was only a phone call away. He would talk whenever they needed it, and would help Sherlock through anything. John made Sherlock promise to call him if he ever felt the need to hurt himself again, and Sherlock agreed. But past all this, John had no idea what to say. He could see how much Sherlock had been deteriorating in the past week, he could see how dulled he had become, his eyes weren't as bright anymore, his skin went back to it's original, papery paleness, and he'd gotten progressively thinner over the past week or so. He hated to see Sherlock like this. Gone was the healthily lean, bright-eyed, and confident (even if it was only around John) teenager. He was just a ghost now, and it worried John. He was scared, and he could see that Sherlock was scared too. But he also knew that he was _never_ going to say goodbye to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't sleep at all that night, he only cried. He waited for John to fall into a peaceful sleep before allowing the tears flow down his now much sharper cheekbones. He cried quietly (something he had perfected years ago, because sobbing would only lead to a panic attack and make his father angrier ), the tears and shaking shoulders the only sign of the emotions that were escaping him.

They both woke up early that morning, well, John woke up. Sherlock hadn't slept properly in days, and it was really showing. His bloodshot eyes (had he been crying?) were ringed in dark half-moons, reminding John of the day they had first met. They dressed in silence, John's eyes lingering on his friend's shockingly thin frame. John signed when he checked the time, only about two hours to go until the parents were set to arrive. He looked over at Sherlock, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the suitcases that littered the floor, and looking up at the now blank walls, totally devoid of all the things that marked this his and John's room. John went over to Sherlock and sat on the bed next to his friend, placing his hand on his friend's knee.

"Sherlock, please listen to me. Everything is going to be okay, I promise. Just a few months, and we'll be back here, and we'll see each other everyday and maybe we'll even room together again. And after that we can go to uni together and get away from all these idiots and meet better people who won't hate you. And remember that I will _always_ answer the phone for you, and I'll always be there for you when you need me."

Sherlock looked up at John, eyes sadder than John had ever seen them. He nodded before his face went blank again. Back to the blank looks and the hollow eyes. It made John physically hurt to see his friend look at him like that. It was like before, when Sherlock had no idea why John wanted to be his friend. He was back to his guarded self, and it really really hurt.

They both lugged their suitcase down the halls together, still getting dirty looks from the other students they passed. Finally the found themselves under their same tree. Six months ago, they had been waiting out in the snow for John's mum. Sherlock had been excited and happy, and so had John. Everything had been going up then, and now things could only go downhill. John noticed an expensive looking, shiny black car pulling up.

"That would be me," Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice steady and failing miserably.

He gave John one last look before he was pulled into a tight hug. They just stood there, neither of them wanting this moment to end. But they had to break the hug eventually, and John's eyes followed his friend as he made his way to the car. Sherlock gave his friend one last sad, desperate look before slamming the door shut. Once in the safety of the car, he hugged his knees up to his chest and buried his face in his hands, ignoring the wetness that was beginning to trail down his cheeks.

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**I'm afraid there is only more sadness on it's way, sorry dear readers...Will update as soon as I can!**

**Thank you so much for taking the time to read, and please leave a review.**


	12. Chapter 12

**__****Angst alert everyone! So this chapter gets pretty sad :( It wasn't very fun to write, but I hope you all enjoy...**

**TRIGGER WARNING: child abuse, self harm, panic attacks, language, and mentions of drug use**

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_It's all my fault_, Sherlock thought to himself, wincing at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Darkening bruises on his cheek and around his eyes. Split lip. Cut on his forehead, bleeding into his eyes. It was his fault. He knew he shouldn't have talked back, it always ended like this when he talked back, it only made Father angrier. But he'd done it anyway. He should have just ignored Father's snide comments like he always did, should have tuned them out and kept his face steady and emotionless. He'd made it a month without talking back, without getting more than a slap from his father. Summer holiday was halfway over, less than a month left until he could leave, he could see John again. He had almost made it. He'd managed to avoid Father when he was drunk. He would lock himself in his room and text John to get his mind off things. He'd managed so far, things had been okay. But he'd been caught off guard this time. He gripped the edges of the sink tightly, turning his knuckles white as Father's cruel words resounded in his head.

_Freak. Psychopath. Faggot. Why are you such a freak? Why can't you be more like your brother? Mycroft was always perfect. I never had to hit him, he knew how to behave properly. He never needed it, he always knew when to shut his goddamn mouth. That's the problem with you, always blurting out your fucking...what do you call them again? Oh yes, deductions. You may think you're smart, but you are so fucking stupid. It's no wonder you don't have any friends, nobody could ever been friends with a freak like you. You will always be a failure, a freak, a mistake..._Sherlock had broken at the comment on not having any friends. He did have a friend, John was his friend. John was all he needed, all he had, really. So he told Father he had a friend. He should have expected the beating, should have know better than to talk back. Father was right. He was stupid, he didn't know how to keep his mouth shut. He shouldn't have spoken, shouldn't have talked back. _What did you just say? You think you have a friend, don't you? Well you don't. You never will. Nobody will ever care about you, you pathetic fucking moron, you goddamn bloody freak..._

Sherlock was snapped out of the memories by a sharp twinge in his split lip. His face was stained with tears, he hadn't even know he'd been crying. It was like rubbing salt in his wounds. He gently washed the blood from his face, pressing a wad of toilet paper to the cut on his forehead in an attempt to stop the bleeding. He winced every time he touched the bruises, every time the combination of water and his own tears flowed over the cuts and scrapes. Swallowing several aspirin, he let out a shaky, panicked breath before tearing himself from the mirror and leaving the the bathroom to collapse on his bed. He tried to steady his breathing, not wanting to work himself into a panic attack. He worked his hand up his un-tucked shirt, pushing on his prominent ribs, feeling a twinge of pain in a specific area. Not bad enough to be broken, thankfully. His fingers came back slick with blood, probably from the scrapes made by Father's kicks. He wiped the blood on his shirt, moving his hands up to his messy hair, pulling at the curls nervously. He knew what he wanted to do. What he needed to do to make all the memories stop, to calm himself down, to focus the pain somewhere else. He wanted to so badly. He couldn't. No. Don't. Don't think about that. Think about John. Think about John. Keep breathing and think about John. Christmas. Easter. Think about John. But it wasn't enough, just thinking wasn't enough. His breathing quickened, his chest hurt. Every breath wheezing and shuddering in his chest, each sob getting deeper and deeper, forcing more tears out of the corners of his eyes and making his still sensitive cuts twinge. Curling up, he dug his mobile out of his pocket and texted John with trembling fingers.

**John?- SH **

Five minutes.

**John?- SH**

Ten minutes.

**Please text me back- SH**

Fifteen minutes.

**Are you there?- SH**

Twenty minutes.

**Please answer me- SH**

Twenty five minutes

**Please- SH**

Thirty minutes passed and still nothing. He threw the phone across the room, hearing it hit the wall with a loud thump. Sherlock curled in on himself, bringing his knees to his chest and hugging his long arms around his torso. Maybe Father was right. Maybe he didn't have any friends. Maybe John didn't care anymore. Maybe John was with his old friends. Maybe those old friends had convinced John to drop Sherlock and come back to their school in the fall. Maybe...maybe...maybe. Sherlock let out a choked, strangled sob. He needed to talk to John right now. Hadn't John promised to always be there? John had promised he would always answer his phone if Sherlock needed him. Did this mean that John didn't care? Had John ever cared? No. No he hadn't. If John cared, he would answer. John wasn't answering, he was never going to answer. John had never cared about him, not really. He just had to admit it to himself. It was all a joke, it had to be. Some bet he'd made with his old friends. Pretend to be friends with the freakiest kid in school, then come back and tell us all about it. It was a joke, he just had to admit it. Nobody could care about him. He was a freak, Father was right. He was stupid, he hadn't seen this before, he was so fucking stupid. Eventually, the tears stopped flowing, and his breathing slowed down. It was so much easier to pretend that John had never cared about him than to think that John wasn't here for him when he needed him. And if John didn't care anymore, Sherlock didn't need to keep his promise anymore, did he?

Sherlock unfolded his legs and pushed himself up into a sitting position, stretching his sore muscles and feeling a painful twinge in his ribs as he eyed his bedside table. He opened the door and removed the false bottom (an attempt to hide its contents from his prying brother). Needles wrapped in sterile white cloth. Packets of powder and vials of clear liquid. Foils packs and prescription bottles of pills. But he didn't want the drugs right now. He dug around the bottom of the drawer and pulled out a bundle of white cloth. His fingers danced on the edges of the sterile silver blades. Big ones. Small ones. Razors and knifes alike. He picked up the largest razor in the meticulously organized pile and held it up against the light, admiring the way the slowly fading sunlight glinted off the cold metal. Hands shaking uncontrollably, Sherlock brought the blade down on to his skin, dragging it across and watching the blood bead around the cut. He felt tears drip down his face, fat drops dotting the pale white (now streaked red) skin of his forearm. Sherlock felt his own salty tears mingle with his wounds for the second time today, bringing the blade against his again and again and again and again...not noticing as his discarded mobile lit up, frantic texts popping up on the screen.

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**Poor Sherlock :( I hope to update as soon as I can, I don't wanna leave you hanging there...**

**Well, thanks for reading and please leave a review if you enjoyed it!**

**Also, a note on my other story "Thanks for the Memories": So quite a few people want me to keep writing for that story, and I'm trying to work on it, but it's coming really really slowly and I'm shit at writing the romantic stuff. So I'm trying!**

***BYE* and hope to do some more writing soon!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Thanks to all those who has followed and favorited this story. You support means so much to me! And a special thanks to EJBRUSH1952, Aria Mai Olican-Wren, Noxlupis Lamiamedicus, ravenclawgirls, Tabby, Owlsky15678, and everyone else who has reviewed this fic! *Hugs to all***

**Back to business! Hope you all enjoy this update, and I apologize in advance for the shortness of this chapter! Sorry! Hope you enjoy anyways!**

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**John?- SH**

**John? SH**

**Please text me back- SH**

**Are you there?- SH **

**Please answer me- SH**

**Please-SH**

This was bad, really bad. Six texts in a row, all within five minutes of each other. Shit. Why hadn't he had his phone with him? The one time Sherlock sounded like he need him, and he didn't have his phone. Stupid, stupid, stupid...

"Hey John! Food's here!", his old friend shouted up the staircase.

"I'll, uh...be down in a second," John managed to shout out through his panic.

**Are you there? Please text me back if you're okay- JW**

Letting out a deep, pent-up breath, John stowed his mobile in his pocket, praying he would feel it vibrate any second. He bounded down the steps, joining several of his old friends. They'd all been hanging out together during the summer, just like old times. They played football, rugby, just guy stuff. The sort of stuff that he'd missed doing with Sherlock. Because as incredible as Sherlock was, his idea of fun seemed to be lounging around the room reading or playing the violin instead of sports or video games. He still missed Sherlock every day and wanted nothing more than to get back to school with him, but he had really missed having more than one friend...

Five minutes passed and John sent off another text, trying to get Sherlock to answer him. After nearly ten minutes with no reply, John really started to panic. Sherlock always texted him back immediately, even when John was the one who texted him. He _always_ had his phone on him, no matter what time of day. It was seriously unlike him to ignore a text. Sighing, John pulled out his mobile, checking for messages just in case he missed the vibration. Nothing. His friends eyed him oddly, quirking their eyebrows at his obviously tense demeanor. He sent off a few more quick, slightly frantic texts, still hoping for a reply, and trying (but ultimately failing) to mask his discomfort as the boys around him shouted and laughed wildly.

Nearly hour passed before his phone vibrated again. Jumping from the sudden movement, John whipped his mobile out with fumbling hands, praying it was Sherlock and not his mum or someone else. He breathed a quick sigh of relief when he noticed the caller ID. Sherlock. Smile spreading across his lips (even if he still had room for concern), John got up and headed outside to the back porch, calling over his shoulder that he'd been right back.

"Oh God, I'm so glad you called. I'm really sorry, I didn't have my mobile on me. I was starting to freak out when you didn't answer! Is everything okay?," John began breathlessly, trying to keep his voice light and upbeat, just in case Sherlock wasn't.

"Is this John Watson?", a cold, male voice replied over the line. Not what he was expecting. Not Sherlock. Definitely not good.

Trying to swallow past the rapidly-forming lump in his throat, John managed to stutter out, "Um, y-yes it is..."

"This is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother. I thought it best to inform you of my brother's most recent suicide attempt, seeing as your two seem to be quite...friendly,"

John stomach dropped to his knees. Oh God. No. This couldn't possibly be happening. He felt his hand slacken around phone, nearly dropping it on the hard, wooden deck. He stayed silent for several minutes, shutting his eyes tight in an attempt to stop the tears that where prickling behind his eyes and threatening to spill down his cheeks, allowing his own harsh breathing to be the only sound.

Finally, John questioned in a shaky voice, "A-are you serious? What the hell is going on? I-is...is he going to be...alright,"

"Deadly serious, Mr. Watson," the icy, almost cruel sounding voice replied again, "though it has yet to be seen if Sherlock will be _alright_, as you so put it. His condition is critical at the moment. As for the details, it would be much easier to explain the gravity of this situation in person. I can have a car to your home within the hour, if that is convenient."

"O-of course, that's fine..."

"Very well then. I will be seeing you shortly," the man, Mycroft, replied before promptly hanging up.

John shakily lowered the phone from his ear. God, he felt like he was going to pass out. He literally felt sick to his stomach. He wanted to throw up. This was all his fault. He'd _promised_ Sherlock that he'd always be there for him, he'd promised he would always answer his phone...Sherlock had needed him. And he hadn't been there. Most recent attempt? This had happened before, and John hadn't know about it. God, he was a shit friend, wasn't he? How could he have not know about this? After taking several minutes to collect himself and wipe his eyes, John went back inside. He managed to mumble some excuse on why he had to leave before quickly exiting his friend's house, ignoring their weird looks, and sprinting home.

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**Ummm...okay then. Please don't hate me :) **

**I struggled a lot with that decisions, and I'm still not sure how this decision is gonna pan out with you guys... But I promise to update ASAP, don't wanna leave you hanging like that! Please leave a review and tell me what you think of this chapter! Next chapter will better introduce Mycroft into the story, as well as cover a lot of the topics I've glanced over in the last two chapter. Bye for now and see you soon!**


	14. Chapter 14

**I'm back! Sorry, I wanted to upload this chapter a few days ago, but the last few days have just sucked for me. Lots of personal stuff, you know. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this next chapter, which is pretty long (might be the longest one for this fic). I've recently hit over 50 followers on this story, so thanks and million to everyone who has favorited, followed, and reviewed this little story!**

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John felt a light hand rest on his shoulder and his mother sink down on the couch next to him. She looked over at him worriedly, pulling him closer. John stared off in the distance, shifting himself to lean on his mother's shoulder. She pulled him closer, running her fingers through her son's hair.

"Sweetheart, I'm sure everything will be fine...If you want to talk about anything, just tell me, and if you want me to come along with you, I will," she whispered gently, placing a soft kiss on her boy's forehead. John nodded slowly, staring off into the distance. She hated seeing him like this. There had been tears at first, streaming down his face as he ran into the house, slamming the door behind him. It had scared her, really scared her seeing him like that. John never cried, and even if he did, he would certainly never let anyone see him. Something was very wrong. She had wanted to cry herself when John told her, wiping his eyes angrily and trying to keep his voice steady. Sherlock was a good kid, she knew it from the moment she saw him. He'd been through a lot, and had struggled so much, but she knew Sherlock was a special. The kind of friend you knew you could trust with anything, who you knew you would be friends with forever. She had know that Sherlock would be great one day, with enough help and enough people around him who cared. But now John was just sitting there, eyes dry and staring off in the distance. The tears had worn off and were replaced by shock and fear that was so much worse than seeing him cry. It was like he was accepting that he might lose another person in his life. He'd already lost his father, and now he might lose his best friend, and he couldn't do anything to stop it.

Night had already fallen by the time they arrived at the hospital. The hours long car ride had been tense, filled with a terrifying silence. John had held onto his mobile tightly, as if waiting for a call bearing the worse news possible. Wasting no time in getting out of the car, John bolted out and rushed up to the nurses' desk, his mum following quickly behind him. When John asked about Sherlock, she gave him a sad look and pointed the pair over to a small waiting room, with only a few scattered occupants.

It was pretty obvious, once they arrived in the waiting room, which of its occupants was Sherlock's brother. He was just as John had always imagined him from what little Sherlock had told him and what he gleaned from the overly pompous sounding voice. The was a little family resemblance, the man, who didn't seem much older than twenty five, was tall, much like Sherlock, though a bit heavier. He had much lighter hair, and his facial structure wasn't as dramatic as his brother's, but even from this distance, John could see they had the same eyes. Cold, steely, icy eyes that saw everything that could possibly been seen, the kinds of things that the average person ignored. Getting up and straightening his expensive looking suit, Mycroft Holmes crossed the room.

"Ah yes, you must be John Watson," he remarked, proffering his hand, which John's mother shook, "and you must be his mother. Thank you for taking the time to come out here, I'm sure it will be appreciated."

"H-how is he?", John managed to stammer out, his voice refusing to be steady.

"It was touch and go for some time, but the doctors have managed to stabilize him. All that's left now is to wait for him to wake up, though it is yet to be seen when, or...if, that will happen."

John let out a deep breath, closing his eyes and running his fingers through his hair, "Can I...can I see him?"

Mycroft nodded, motioning for the two to follow him down a long hallway. They stopped in front of the door, and John was just about to reach for the handle when Mycroft blocked his way, giving John a serious, and curiously, sad look.

"There are many thing you don't know about my brother, and many things that will need to be discussed after you see him. You should just be...prepared...for what you are about to see."

Mycroft removed his hand from the door, and John took the handle in his hand, taking a deep breath as he turned it and walked into the room. Rounding the corner, John stifled a pained gasp when he saw Sherlock. It was all too much to process. There was a tube stuck down his throat forcing air into his lungs, tilting his head back and exposing his long neck, there were beeping machines all around, providing the only noise in the otherwise silent room. IV bags hung around him, pumping medication and blood back into his body. John noticed he was skin and bones again, he could see the outline of Sherlock's collarbone peeking out from under the pale blue hospital gown. His thin arms, which were bandaged from wrist to elbow, were limp at his sides. So he'd cut himself then, that's how he'd done it. Walking closer still, he noticed them, the only thing worse than the terrifying thinness and the sterile white bandages, the bruises, blooming dark black and blue on his pale white skin. Stunningly dark patches around his eyes and on his cheeks, finger-shaped ones on the visible part of his arms and around his neck. There were dark red scrapes and cuts on his face as well, also forming the center of the bruises. His head was bandaged too. John leaned against the wall, breathing heavily and in short gasps. What was going on? Who had done this to him? Giving himself a second to steady himself, he pushed off the wall and walked slowly to his best friend's side.

Standing by the bed, staring down at his best friend, John wanted nothing more than to collapse. He pushed a few stray (and noticeably dull) curls from his friend's bandaged forehead. But this wasn't his best friend anymore. This was a shell. He was hollow cheeks and skin too pale to be healthy. He was shadows closed eyes and a slack mouth kept open by the tubes. His friend, his real best friend, wasn't like this. His best friend smiled and laughed and played the violin. This wasn't how he wanted to remember Sherlock. Sinking into one of the uncomfortable looking chairs near the bed, John made to grab Sherlock's hand, but his own brushed against something unexpected. Looking down again, John noticed thick, padded leather cuffs encircling his wrists and ankles, and even around his waist. He hadn't noticed through all the medical equipment and bruises and...

"Why...why is he restrained?" John quaked, abandoning the thought of keeping his voice calm.

Mycroft sighed deeply, placing a hand on the edge of Sherlock's bed, "We are uncertain what his mental state will be when he wakes. The last time he was in the situation, he was...less than cooperative."

John simply nodded, ignoring the soft, worried look from his mother. He picked up Sherlock's restrained hand, tracing the bony fingers. He didn't want this to be real, but it was. Even if Sherlock woke up...he might not be okay. He might still be...gone. Running his eyes up Sherlock's unconscious form once again, John asked the question he'd been dreading the answer to the second he saw the bruises. He had a though, but he hoped to God he was wrong.

"Who did this to him?"

"Our father, who is currently in police custody."

"How long?"

Mycroft didn't answer immediately. He looked back down at his brother, then back at John. His face remained steady, though his eyes showed sadness.

"How long?", John insisted again, voice beginning to quake, not with sadness, but with rage.

" Twelve years."

It was all too much. He couldn't take it anymore. Twelve years. Sherlock had been abused for twelve years, and nobody had done anything about it. He had lived through all that shit, and had never had anyone there for him. No wonder Sherlock never talked about his parents, no wonder Sherlock never talked about his brother. No wonder Sherlock lied, no wonder he hurt himself, no wonder he hated himself. All John could imagine now was a tiny little Sherlock, cowering in fear of his own father, being screamed at and beaten. John could never understand what was wrong with those people. Couldn't imagine how someone could hurt their own child like this. His own father had never hit him, not once, not even a slap. And Sherlock's father beat him. For twelve years. Screw being strong, John though to himself. He couldn't be strong anymore. He felt tears leaking down his face again, for the first time in hours. The images didn't stop. John could feel his shoulders shaking, and he could feel his mother's soft hand being placed there. After a few minutes to himself, John began to feel the weight of Mycroft's stare prickling him.

"Twelve years. You have got to be kidding me. Twelve years, and you don't do a single fucking thing until now, you don't give a shit until now. You fucking bastard! You left him there, you let this happen. This is your fault." John hissed angrily.

"If you are going to start yelling, I will have to escort you from the room. As I said, there is much that needs to be explained before you understand the situation."

"Fine, then start explaining." John snapped.

"Very well. What you must understand is that my brother and I share quite and age difference. Seven years in fact. Sherlock was only five when I was set to leave for my first year at boarding school. At the time, I had never had an inclination that my father was abusive. He never hit Sherlock for anything other than discipline. I'd never seen him beat Sherlock, never to this extent, and I would have noticed if he had. I wasn't worried about leaving him, I thought he would be okay. When I came home for the holidays, things were different. Sherlock was quieter and more introverted than usual, but I attributed that to him beginning school on his own. I knew he would be bullied, I knew the other children wouldn't like him. I tried to help him, but there was only so much I could do, I was only twelve. Our father was not unintelligent. He never beat Sherlock during the holidays, or during the summer when I would be there to notice. Sherlock never let on to what was happening, and I never knew. I attributed his deterioration from the happy, energetic child I remembered to school bullies, something I had no control over. Eventually I left home, I talked to him less often and saw him even less. I didn't know about anything, not until early last summer, when Sherlock tried to kill himself. It was a drug overdose. Unbeknownst to me or anyone around him, Sherlock had turned to alcohol, drug use, and self mutilation to cope with the pain of the double fronted abuse from his father and peers. He had struggled with this for several years before his attempt on his life. He used anything he could get his hands on. Nicotine. Cocaine. Heroin. Morphine. Anything to stop the pain. He actually died, his heart stopped beating. But they were able to bring him back and stabilize him. After he left the hospital, Sherlock spent several months in rehab before returning to school under the promise that he would stay clean. What Sherlock didn't know was that I'd seen the bruises. I finally understood what our father was doing to him, what he had been doing for so long. It made sense. I never told him about it because I knew he would only deny it. I have spent the last year working on the case, gaining enough evidence to put the man away for good. I was hoping Sherlock would be able to keep his head down long enough to weather this final summer, and that he could be out of that house before I confronted our father. I was wrong. But we have the upper hand now, our father will be convicted and Sherlock will never see him again. So yes, this is my fault, I let this happen, and I will never forgive myself, but I'm doing my best to fix it."

And with those final words, Mycroft exited the room, closing the door behind him and leaving John and his mother alone.

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The next few days passed in a blur for John. Most of his time was spent in their hotel room, just reading, or else thinking. About everything, about all of this. Every moment of his and Sherlock's friendship played behind his closed eyelids. The good and the bad. Whenever he tried to sleep, he dreamed about Sherlock dragging the razor across his skin, watching the blood bead on his arm, about him being beaten by a faceless shadow of a man. Sometimes he woke up screaming, breathing heavy. His mum watched on, worried about how her son was processing all this. A few of his friend's had called, asking what had happened and why he'd left so suddenly. He'd explained what happened, and they said they hoped everything would turn out okay, but John knew it wasn't genuine.

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John and his mum visited Sherlock every day, and stayed as long as they were allowed. His condition had improved enough to be taken off the ventilator and most of the machines. The doctors expected him to wake up any day now. When they visited, John would sit by Sherlock's side, he would talk to him, about how worried he was, about how much he needed him to wake up. Finally, nearly five days after Sherlock arrived at the hospital, he began to stir. John looked up from his book, surprised by the movement. He was about to press the button to call a nurse when he saw Sherlock's eyelids flutter slightly. Leaning in expectantly, John watched on as Sherlock's eyes opened fully and his head turned in John's direction.

John wasn't prepared for what happened next.

Narrowing his eyes menacingly, Sherlock hissed through closed teeth, "Get out."

"W-wait what do you mean?"

"I said get out! Get out right now!" Sherlock shouted, straining at the leather straps that held his limbs down. He bucked his hips and twisted wildly, throwing his head back and screaming, eyes shut tight. He kicked against the restraints, writhing and jerking wildly. And he just kept screaming, half-sobbing. Get out. Go away. Get out now. I hate you. Leave me alone. I hate you. John backed away quickly, pulling his hand away and nearly falling over the chair. He watched on in horror as nurses rushed in, holding Sherlock down as they injected what was probably a sedative into his thankfully intact IV line. Sherlock kept screaming until his throat was raw, kicking and trying to knee the nurses swarming around him. Finally it all stopped and the nurses stepped away, sweating and panting. Sherlock had gone limp again, his head lolled to the side, curls falling into his face, and his breathing slowly went back to normal. Oh God. It was over, it was all over. Sherlock was gone, his old self barely a shadow. John felt himself slipping down against the wall, head in his hands and breathing heavily. He barely registered the nurses ushering him quietly out of the room, fussing over him and asking if he was okay. Because Sherlock was gone, and John was terrified he would never get him back.

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**Well then...that was a bit intense...**

**Hope you enjoyed and I hope to have the next chapter up soon :)**

**Please review if you enjoyed and let me know what you think!**


	15. Chapter 15

**So I would just like to preface this new chapter with a thank you. I started writing this fic on the last day of school, and thought that writing would be a fun way to spend my summer. I never expected anything to come of this, and never really thought anyone would read it. Guess I was wrong! So, again, thanks for all the support! I'm starting school again in the next few days, so my update schedule might be a little screwy for a bit, but I hope to get it back on track with at least weekly updates.**

**Anyways...some much needed brotherly love in this chapter, and all previous warnings apply for this chapter too (again, nothing actually graphic). Thanks for clicking :) and I hope you enjoy a little bittersweet moment between our two brothers.**

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Sherlock could feel the drug induced fog slowly lifting, though his mind felt heavy and sluggish still. He hated this feeling, hated having his mind weighed down, hated not being able to think. Well, he hated it when it wasn't self-induced. How long had he been out anyway? Hours probably. God, he just wanted to wake up, get out of here. He tried to will his limbs to move, but could feel thick padded cuffs still clamped around his wrist. He tried shifting his weight, entirely unsuccessful due to the strap around his waist. Cracking his tired eyes open and wincing at the bright white light, he turned his head, trying to see if there was anyone in the room with him. Mycroft. How dull. He was seated in a chair at the far end of the room, head buried in a newspaper, and hadn't even noticed Sherlock's waking. Sherlock cleared his parched throat, groaning at the dull throb. He watched as Mycroft peeked over the newspaper, and noticed dark circles ringing the usually cold eyes.

"When am I getting out of here?" he rasped, voice hoarse from disuse.

"When are you going to stop attacking people?" Mycroft supplied coldly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, squirming against the restraints.

"That was one time Mycroft. Now get me out of these things."

Mycroft sighed audibly, tossing his paper on the small table near the chair and getting up to stand by his brother's bedside. He made short work of the restraints, unhooking Sherlock's wrists, ankles, and finally his waist. He helped his brother, with his stiff muscles and heavily bandaged forearms, struggle into a sitting position, and handed him a cup of water. Sherlock just sat there, slowly sipping the water and rubbing at his wrists absentmindedly.

"We need to talk about this Sherlock."

"About what?" the younger boy snapped, averting his eyes from his brother's piercing gaze.

Mycroft's eyes softened, and he spoke in a gentler voice, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "About this. About all of this Sherlock. Why you're here, what happened."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to avoid this conversation. He didn't want to talk about this, didn't want to talk about Father or John or anything. He hated hospitals so much. He hated the nurses and the doctors and the psychiatrists that tried to figure out what was wrong with him when he full-well knew why he was so screwed up. He hated being trapped. He just wanted to go...somewhere. Where, he wasn't sure. Not home, not to Father. Not with Mycroft either. Not to school, not with John, but somewhere. He zoned out, ignoring Mycroft and looking down at his lap.

"You have to talk about this Sherlock. You can't keep all this bottled up inside anymore because this is what it does to you. This is how you end up. You've gotten lucky twice. They've gotten you here in time, they've saved you. But next time? They might not be able to. They might be too late. Is that what you really want Sherlock?"

Sherlock just shrugged again.

Mycroft was angry now. He was angry and exhausted and sick and tired of dealing with this. But he wasn't angry at Sherlock, not really. Maybe he was selfish, maybe he had no regard for other's feelings, maybe he didn't care about himself. But more than anything, Mycroft was angry at himself. This was all his fault, in a way. He blamed himself for the way Sherlock was now. People would say it was their father and the bullies that turned his little brother into this cracked, broken shell who bottled up his emotions to the point of bursting. The freaky genius who people though was sociopath, but who had really felt more pain in his short lifetime than anyone could ever imagine. His decision to not care only made the world hate him more. Nobody understood. But somehow, Mycroft knew it was his fault. He should have been there more when Sherlock was little, he should have seen the signs. It should have never gotten to this far, to the point where Sherlock legitimately thought nobody cared, to the point where he was so hopeless he wanted to take his own life.

"Sherlock. Look at me right now, please. People care about you, maybe not many people, maybe not as many as you deserve, but enough. I know things have been hard, and I know things have seemed so hopeless. I know you've been hurt badly by a lot of people, and I know perhaps you've given up. But I care Sherlock, and I am so so sorry that things have ended up this way. I wouldn't still be here if I didn't care about you. John cares about you too..."

Mycroft was stopped mid-sentence by Sherlock's head snapping up, eyes blazing.

"No. No, no, no, no, no. Stop it, stop it right now. John doesn't care about me. I know he doesn't. You're lying, he's lying too. So stop talking about him. I don't...I don't want to talk about this," Sherlock practically shouted, thin fingers moving up to tug nervously at his hair, breaths coming in sharp, panicked gasps.

"Sherlock, please, just calm down. Everything is going to be fine. We can talk about this later, you need to rest," Mycroft replied worriedly, easing his little brother back down, watching him nod his head and seeing him curl in on himself like a small child, burying his head in his knees. He sank down in one of the chairs near the bed, snaking his fingers in his little brother's curls, trying to calm the damaged teen.

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**Thanks for taking the time to read, and please leave a review if you liked it, along with any suggestions or criticisms.**

**I've also been bouncing around some new story ideas, including a collection of song fics of varying subject matter and ANOTHER Johnlock AU which I've been thinking about doing forever, but haven't had the time to actually write out. Anyone interested, or should I just focus on this stuff for the time being?**

**As I mentioned before, I'm not positive when the next update will be, it really depends on how busy I get starting school. **

**Again, thanks for all the support, the follows, favorites, and reviews, and I hope to see you soon :D**


	16. Chapter 16

**Okay, so maybe I lied about not updating for a bit. I needed to get this out there so I could start working on the next couple chapters, and I'm not really sure when THOSE chapters will be released. Sorry this chapter is on the shorter side, it's really just set-up for what I have planned.**

**Thanks for reading and leave a review if you are enjoying!**

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Mycroft Holmes, for the first time in his life, had no idea what to do. This wasn't turning out as planned, not at all. He had always hoped that Sherlock would wake up and be happy that John was there for him. Mycroft would get him out of the hospital as soon as he was fully recovered, and he'd planned to send him to the Watson home until Sherlock and John could return to school. He was confident that John and his mother could keep Sherlock in line, he knew they would be able to help him and keep him from hurting himself. They would be good to him. But that didn't seem to be an option anymore. There was something wrong with Sherlock, something that couldn't be patched over so quickly. He was broken now, really truly broken. He didn't want to talk about John, or even think about him. So sending him there wasn't an option. Mycroft couldn't take him in either. He was too busy with work and with finalizing details with their father's case. He wouldn't be able to give Sherlock the attention and supervision he needed right now. There was only one viable option. Another rehab facility. It hadn't gone well last time, Sherlock had been entirely uncooperative. They'd had to send him back home, he refused to even speak to the therapists or the other patients. He wouldn't open up to anyone, and there were people who needed his bed more than him, people who truly wanted to get better. All they accomplished at the facility was flushing the surprisingly large variety of drugs out of his brother's system, watching over him as he rode the choppy waves of detox. Watched his pain, watched his struggle. This time would be harder. There was little physically wrong with Sherlock, there was little they could do to help him. He needed to open up, to admit to someone that he had a problem, to admit that he needed help. Mycroft was scared too. He was terrified that he was too late, that he had waited too long. He was scared that his little brother was too broken to be helped, that he was going to refuse again. Mycroft was afraid to send him away, because he wasn't sure if he'd ever get him back...

Later that day, Mycroft stopped by the hotel John and his mother were staying at. He informed them as best he could what was going on and what would happen. He shared his plans with them, sending Sherlock to a rehab facility and trying to get him help. John asked when Sherlock would be back, and Mycroft had no answer. He tried to comfort John. He assured John that he would be updated on Sherlock's condition, and would be called if he was needed. Mycroft had to tell John to go home and live his life, go back to school, and it really hurt to have to say these things. He knew that John cared, he cared more about Sherlock than so many other people, he had found the best in the teenager, and Sherlock had gotten so much better with him around. Mycroft wished it wasn't this way, and he hated seeing the young man before him feel so terrible and alone. He knew that John was hurting, and he knew that he would continue hurting until Sherlock forgave him (even if there really wasn't anything to forgive). Mycroft made sure John knew that he wasn't to blame for this mess, no matter how he felt.

When Mycroft arrived back at his own room, he began his research. He found several facilities that would be acceptable, and quickly booked a stay at the most promising one. An indefinite stay. Sherlock would stay there until he made progress, until he opened up, or as long as the facility would have him. He would break the news to Sherlock in the morning, and he knew it wouldn't be good. Sherlock would be angry at him, that was a sure thing. Sherlock may hate hospitals, but he hated the facilities even more. They controlled him too much, and he hated being manipulated. He would rebel, he wouldn't cooperate. But this was Sherlock's final chance. If he couldn't be fixed now, there was nothing Mycroft would be able to do. He wouldn't be able to convince Sherlock to keep living, the second Mycroft left the picture, Sherlock would ensure he ended his life. He would jump off a building or blow out his brains, anything to ensure he didn't have to be on this planet anymore.

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**I suppose you can figure out where this is going. This story is going to go through a bit of a shift in focus for the time being, becoming a more Sherlock-centric fic for the next few chapters, detailing his experience in a treatment facility.**

**P.S.~Also, I feel the need to create *gulp* a original character for the next few chapters. There really aren't any existing characters that would serve the purpose I've planned, so if anyone has suggestions, I'd be happy to hear them! I'm shit at creating OCs. Also, if anyone has experience in any of these sort of things, feel free to PM me.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Hope everyone enjoys this new chapter and what I have in store for y'all!**

**Also, quick side note. I recently did a re-write of Chapter One, simply because it was one of the first pieces of creative writing I did and I wasn't too happy with it. No new content and nothing different was mentioned, just a different style.**

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ULRIC. I repeat, I do not own the character Ulric. He is property of the user Aria Mari Olican-Wren. I didn't make him up, he's a borrowed OC. Speaking of such, I don't own any of the other characters either. I know, sad, right?**

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"Are you ready?" Mycroft questioned, fiddling idly with his umbrella as the two stood in the lobby of the rehab facility Mycroft had picked out.

Sherlock simply ignored his brother, setting his face and keeping his lips tight, grinding his teeth. He hadn't said a word since the...incident with Mycroft, and he wasn't planning on it. If he didn't talk, he wouldn't have to stay. They'd give up on him, just like last time, they couldn't keep him locked up here forever. There were entirely too many fucked up teenagers out there, and this facility was entirely too well-recommended to keep a mental case who refused help. All part of his plan, keeping silent and ignoring everything. Mycroft sighed at his brother's silence, rubbing his temples with one hand and heading over to the front desk to check Sherlock in. Sherlock supposed Mycroft was his guardian now, since Father was in the process of being convicted and he'd been removed from their custody. Even his mother was facing suspicion, she'd know about the abuse and had never done a single thing to fix it. At least he didn't have to testify at a trial or something, being sent here was proof enough of the damage Father had done...

Sherlock stood off to the side, zoning out and leaning against the wall, clutching his small suitcase tightly in his hands. Soft material, no zip. Nothing he could possibly use to hurt himself. He'd watched on, annoyed out of his mind, as a beefy security guard in the front of the building had pawed through his things, scrutinizing every item for a place to hide anything sharp or dangerous. No thumbtacks, no pens, no pencils, no metal items. Nothing that could ever possibly be used to hurt himself. He watched on as Mycroft chatted quietly to the nurse, who kept throwing sad looks in Sherlock's direction, ready to bring him in. This was going to be hell, he thought to himself, blowing a deep breath out his nose.

After signing several forms, Mycroft and the nurse walked over to him. Mycroft eyed his little brother sadly, and placed a light hand on the younger boy's shoulder. He knew Sherlock wouldn't want a hug, he hated unnecessary physical contact, but he was more than a little worried. He knew this wasn't going to end well, he could tell. The only hope was for one of the doctors to help tap into why he hated John, to get the two to talk things out and get Sherlock to realize that John cared about him more than anything. Without that, Sherlock would never WANT to get better, therefore he wouldn't.

"I'll see you soon, alright? And please, just...can you just try?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and angrily pushed Mycroft's hand off his shoulder, not trying to hide the scowl on his face. Mycroft shook his head tiredly, and Sherlock's pale eyes followed him as he made his way out the large double doors at the front of the facility. The nurse, who was considerably shorter than the rather tall teenager, looked up at the newest patient with a twinge of anger in her kind face. She pointed to one of the hallways on the other side of the room, leading the way and motioning for Sherlock to follow her. The hallways were surprisingly bright, not dark and dank like he'd expected, with lots of windows (all thick glass that wouldn't break and couldn't be opened). The two walked together for a while, the nurse, who introduced herself as Michelle, would stop to point out several locations on their way to the living quarters. The cafeteria, the small gym where they conducted physical therapy, art rooms and music rooms, hallways leading to the infirmary and psychiatrist's offices. There were a few scattered exits on their way, all locked tight or guarded, some leading to small courtyards where the patients could get fresh air (under supervision) or exercise if weather permitted. The security guards were grim, and the nurses bustled about, checking charts and chatting. They were all different, some of them seemed to prefer a forced-cheerful attitude, trying to bring a little lightness to the depressing place, and then there were those who truly hated their job and hated being there. The nurse showing him around was of the first sort, trying to get him marginally excited about all the wonderful areas he would have access to when he got a little better. She enthused about how this was one of the best facilities out there, and how they had wonderful success rates for people like him. They had great doctors, great staff, and some wonderful guests (they called their patients "guests", like they actually wanted to be here...) who acted like mentors to the new ones. It made him sick. Why did he have to get stuck with this one?

He followed her along like a zombie, eventually tuning out everything she said. He nearly rammed into her when she made an abrupt stop at another corridor. She opened the door, revealing a large room with some couches and chairs and a few tables. A large window that obviously didn't open let light filter in, illuminating a TV in the corner, which was playing some popular show (which one, he wasn't sure) on mute.

She lead him across the room and turned down yet another hallway. She stopped for the final time outside one of the doors.

"Alright, I think that's it then. Most of the other guests are at their personal therapies, so there aren't too many people around right now. Don't worry, you'll get a chance to meet them later on. This is your room, and you'll have a roommate. He should actually be in there now, and he can answer any other questions you might have right now. You'll begin therapies tomorrow, once you've settled in, and we'll give you a schedule tomorrow too." she chimed, giving him an encouraging smile and motioning for him to get inside his room. He sighed and look the handle, pushing the door open and finally leaving the moronic nurse behind, not entirely ready to face the wave of idiocy he might very well face when he met his new roommate.

His room was boring and cold, just like the rest of this place, he thought to himself, taking everything in. Linoleum floors in white, flecked with bits of gray. Pale blue walls, the sort of color you might paint a child's room. Tiled ceiling with fluorescent lighting, which was already giving Sherlock a headache, the constant buzzing too much for his sensitive hearing. There were two beds pushed off to both sides of the door, one made with perfect hospital corners and the other rumpled, pillow throw at the edge of the bed. Two desks were pushed against the walls as well, bolted there to prevent them from being moved. Small footlockers, more than enough room for his meager personal items, were shoved at the end of the bed between the desks. He caught sight of his roommate, curled up in the window seat, reading a book. As he heard the door slam, the other boy looked up, gray eyes going wide with surprise. He set his book down on the floor and got up, stretching a little as he did so and quickly glancing over in Sherlock's direction, giving him a once over.

"Oh, um, hi. You must be my new roommate...I'm Ulric, by the way. They, um, didn't tell me your name," he mumbled quietly, making his way across the room and proffering his hand, shifting his sleeve to cover his wrist. Standing up, the two were almost the same height. Sherlock wouldn't be able to use his height to intimidate this one.

Sherlock glanced down at the hand and ignored it, turning away. He made short work of unpacking, shoving his few possession in the footlocker, ignoring the mildly hurt expression on the other boy's face. He'd just have to ignore his roommate, biting his tongue to keep the deductions from flying past his lips, even though Ulric was painfully transparent. He'd been institutionalized here for self harm, obvious, Sherlock had caught sight of a what looked like a few scars before Ulric had fidgeted with his sleeve (a habit Sherlock himself had picked up when he was around people who didn't know about his own self-injury). Besides, he may be lean, but he didn't have the unhealthy look of someone with an eating disorder or heavy drug user. As to why, that was obvious too. Ulric had some daddy issues, but not as bad as Sherlock's. His father probably expected a lot from him, things he might not be able accomplish. He was never good enough, something teenagers deal with all the time. Good relationship with his mother though, she was the only reason he was here. He was also very shy, so probably ignored by his classmates, not many friends. But he wasn't abused by his father or even bullied at school, Sherlock would have been able to tell. He would have been able to see the signs. Smirking to himself, Sherlock was satisfied with his inner deductions and not feeling (for once) the need to spit them back out in the boy's face and be a show-off.

"Oh...well. I guess you don't have to talk if you don't want to, most people don't talk much when they first get here. But, um, if you ever want to talk about...anything...just let me know, alright? I guess I just, erm, kinda understand what you went through...or...are going through," Ulric stammered out, motioning to Sherlock's still bandaged forearms and moving slightly trembling hands (caused by his nerves, no doubt) to tuck a few strands of his messy light brown hair behind his ear.

Just keep ignoring him, Sherlock chided to himself. Ignore him and he'll go away, it worked 9 out of 10 times. Seeing that Sherlock wasn't going to open up any time soon, Ulric made his way back to the window and picked up his book again, settling down to keep reading. Sherlock flopped down on the thin, lumpy mattress, rolling over to face to wall and hugging his legs up to his chest, clutching the pillow close and receding deep into his Mind Palace, going about the task of trying to shove all his memories of John back into the barren corners of his mind.

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**Please please please let me know what you think of this sorta change in direction! I'm a bit nervous about it, even though I enjoy writing it. I'm not really sure how long this part is going to go on, I suppose it depends on what you guys think! Input would be wonderful!**

**Also, special thanks to Texmex007 for giving me inspiration for a character I will introduce later on in the story, probably in the next chapter or so!**

**Thanks for taking the time to read and I hope I don't disappoint you!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Sorry for making you wait so long! I've been really busy with school, but I promise to never abandon this story or any of my other ones!**

**Some language in this chapter, just thought I'd warn you. I guess you should know by now what other triggers apply, you know, self-harm, etc., etc...**

**Hope y'all enjoy!**

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It had been nearly three weeks since Sherlock had been admitted. He hadn't spoken at all, and continued to ignore everyone. He never participated in group therapy, when all the other "guests" talked about their problems. He never said a word during his private sessions with his therapist either, who sat in his chair with his notebook open and his tape recorder rolling, waiting for Sherlock to launch into some tragic confession of his feelings. Why he hurt himself. Why he starved himself. Why he pushed everyone away. It should be obvious, he's a freak, and he always will be. Even here, he was still the freak, even the guests that were mostly silent during therapies spoke during meal time, contributing to the buzzing hive of mindless chatter as they all forced down bland, soft foods. No forks, especially not for Sherlock, he might try to hurt himself. So just plastic spoons. Nurses would sit by the trash cans, watching how much food people threw out, making sure people were eating enough. They watched Sherlock like a hawk though, the doctors must have decided he was anorexic or something. After dinner, they would all go back to the rec room, where some would watch TV or talk, maybe play a card game. Sherlock would always retreat back to his room to read or simply sleep. In the beginning, he would spend the time before lights out simply observing the other guests, but that had gotten boring. He'd deduced all that was possible. Picked out the drugs addicts and the drinkers. The self-harmers and the anorexics and everything in between. Everyone here was so transparent. He knew all their motives within days. Was it bullying or abuse from a parent? Peer pressure? Why was always the question, it was what intrigued him the most. There were people who deserved to be here, people who had real problems. But some of them...they had it easy. Just fucked up teenage hormones and silly little problems, things Sherlock laughed at. Oh, their boyfriends made them do it, they wanted to be popular, they wanted friends...They were lucky. They still had parents that cared about them and friends on the outside that eagerly awaited their return to school. Sherlock had nobody, or at least that's how he felt right now. He had nothing to do now but waste away in this hellhole until they decided to throw him out.

Some time later, Sherlock found himself sprawled on his bed, staring at the celling and absentmindedly rubbing his arms which had been recently sprung from their bandages. He brushed his fingers along the thick, raised scars on the fleshy parts of his forearms, which were still dark against his skin yet to fade to silver like the rest. His eyes had lost their focus, and really, he was staring at nothing. He'd counted the celling tiles already, and the floor tiles as well. He'd mapped out the entire room in his mind, he knew every corner and every detail to perfection. He certainly wasn't going to go down and watch TV like some normal person. Or play games with the other mental cases. He'd become bored of the limited books the doctors gave them access to. Nothing that could trigger them, nothing that could possibly make him upset. He couldn't even have a pencil or pen to write with, or even sketch with. He only had felt tip markers available to him, and that would be about as useless as a crayon. No music either, he didn't have the sort of clearance for headphones or access to a violin. He had nothing to do, nothing to keep his mind occupied. He was bored of his skull. What he needed now was drugs. Cocaine would be wonderful right now, making his mind race and his thoughts fly by. All he needed was one hit, one chance at a blissful high to take his mind off all this. Any stimulant would do, even if it was nicotine or caffeine...But no coffee, and no cigarettes for him (he might try to burn himself...). He'd even make due with a depressant. Heroin or morphine...They'd help dull his mind down to a low buzz, let him get some rest and ignore all the infuriating people around him. He'd take pills...God, he give anything for a blade to slash himself with, anything to just END this fucking boredom. All of this was so pointless. Completely and utterly fucking pointless. He was never going to get better, and at this rate, he was only going to get worse when they finally got some sense and kicked him out.

Far away from this secure facility, John Watson was sitting on his bed, surrounded by his packed-up belongings, and wasn't faring much better than his old friend. He was set to go back to school soon, within the upcoming week, and he was absolutely terrified. He had nobody now. He didn't have any friends, everyone at school hated him. He'd been alright with that before though. He hadn't minded not having more friends, as long as he had one good one. But he'd never expected this, he never thought he'd have to go back to school without Sherlock. He'd always imagined they would spend their last year of school together, somehow he knew that the school would honor his request to room with Sherlock again, seeing as none of the other students would stand being roomed with either of them. They'd look for universities together, find one in the city, maybe London, where they could meet new people that might be able to accept Sherlock for the arrogant (but incredible) jerk that he was. John would study medicine, Sherlock would study Chemistry or Criminal Psychology or something like that. Perhaps they'd get a flat together. They'd be happy. But John had screwed up and he hated himself so much now. He hadn't been there when Sherlock had needed him, he hadn't been there. This was all his fault. His mum was worried about him, he spent a lot of time in his room alone. He spent so much time flipping through the sketchbook Sherlock had given him for Christmas, remembering all the good times, and even the bad times. He'd stopped multiple times on the sketch that showed him kneeling in front of Sherlock, gripping his wrists and staring intently at him. That moment...he though he could never have felt any worse. It had been like getting punched in the gut, finding out that his best friend hurt himself like that. That was nothing compared to how he felt now. He hurt more than he ever had. He'd poured over the note in the back over and over. _You are my friend, my first friend, and maybe the only one I'll ever have. I was so alone before I met you, and you saved me from myself. I don't know if I would still be here if it wasn't for you. You mean the world to me, more than you could ever imagine, and I don't want to think about what my life would be like without you..._John had been the one to save Sherlock, the one to convince him to stay, to get healthy. But he'd been the one to undo Sherlock too. He'd destroyed everything, he'd destroyed Sherlock's entire life, broken his best friend to pieces and left nothing but a empty hole behind. All because he hadn't had his phone with him...God, he hated himself...hated himself so fucking much. He didn't know how to make himself feel better. He hadn't heard from Mycroft in nearly a week. He could only assume that Sherlock wasn't doing well either. Mycroft would have called if he'd gotten better. No call. Nothing to make him feel any better...unless...He had one thing he could try, but it seemed like a bad idea. It wouldn't help, not really. Sherlock was (sort of) living proof that it doesn't work, not really. But he had to try...he would try anything to get rid of the guilt. Slowly, he got up, closing his door softly as he padded down the carpeted hallway to the bathroom. He closed the bathroom door, trying to be quiet, and clicked the lock. He grabbed his shaving razor from the side of the sink and collapsed down onto the floor, propping his back up against the bathtub. He made quick work of disassembling the razor, pulling out one of the blades. He let out a shaky breath and rolled up his sleeve, running his finger along the clear skin near his wrist. Unmarked. Did he want to do this? No...but he had to try it. He knew it was wrong, he knew it was stupid, he knew it would never help hi, only hurt him. But he was going to do it anyway. Fingers trembling, John brought the blade down on his wrist, slowly opening up a short cut and watching the blood bubble up around the newly made wound, reveling in how it made him feel...

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**Tell me what you think and please leave a review!**

**Also, just thought I'd announce that I'm starting work on a sequel to ****Thanks for the Memories****. It'll include some Johnlock romance and will definitely be parent!lock, which I'm seriously excited about writing since it's always for freaking cute!**


	19. Chapter 19

**So since this chapter is so short, I'll be posting another very soon, probably tomorrow, and I hope to do some more writing this weekend since I shouldn't be busy with schoolwork :)**

**Hope everyone is enjoying this, and I really just wanna thank everyone (AGAIN) because I recently hit 70 followers and I'm just freaking in shock about this whole thing!**

**So enjoy!**

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He didn't stop after the first cut. He hated himself for it, more than anyone could possibly imagine. He hated how good it made him feel, he hated how it cleared everything from his mind. He knew it was wrong, he knew it wasn't helping, and it made him sick. He hated it so much, but he couldn't stop now. He was careful though, he wasn't going to be found out and he wasn't going to end up like Sherlock. He controlled himself ,only letting himself make a few cuts per day, always at night, when he could lock himself up in the bathroom and get some peace. The few cuts he allowed himself to make were always short and shallow, a quick drag of the razor against the skin of his wrists (far away from the veins just in case he slipped). All of them were easy to cover up with sleeves. He only let the blood bubble to the surface for a few seconds before staunching it with a piece of toilet paper, which he flushed immediately. He never let them bleed too much, he never let anyone know. Not that there would be anyone to tell anyways. Most people hated him, shoving him in the hallways and knocking him around, calling him names. He hated them and they hated him right back. He hated the way the poked fun at him, they way they still found ways to insult Sherlock, despite the fact that he was no longer around. They asked where Sherlock was, obviously missing their favorite punching bag. Did someone finally get the right idea and lock him up? Did he get arrested? Or better yet, did he finally off himself? John ignored the questions, keeping his head down and keeping his mouth taunt, trying to hide the pain in his eyes and forcing the tears to stay away. The other people in the school simply chose to ignore him, remaining indifferent even though in the past they might have tried to be friends. Thankfully, his roommate fell under the indifferent category, he did his schoolwork quietly and never asked John questions, never ever acknowledged him when he walked in the room. A small comfort in the hellhole he called school.

He still missed Sherlock every single day, he missed him so much it hurt. To some degree though, John found that he hated the infuriating teenager. This was all his fault, this whole entire mess. He was stupid and stubborn and arrogant and he was a complete and utter dick sometimes. If he'd just...forgiven John, things would be alright now. Maybe Sherlock would have gotten out of rehab by now, maybe they'd be back at school together. And he wouldn't be hurt himself, he never would have if it wasn't for Sherlock.

He was sitting in his room, reading a book for English class while his roommate was out playing rugby, when he felt his mobile buzzing in his pocket. Careful not to open his cuts back up, he dug it out, checking the caller ID before answering. Mycroft. He blew out a deep breath, thankful his roommate wasn't around and hoping that maybe, just maybe, the news was good. He answered the call.

"Hello?" he asked, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible.

"Hello John. I thought it best to inform you that there is a visiting day at Sherlock's facility this Saturday, if you are interested. I can have you excused from classes and have a car ready," Mycroft replied, voice taunt.

"Erm, yeah, sure. That's sounds...good."

"Thank you. I fear this may be our last chance at making any difference. The facility is nearly through with his lack of cooperation, and the next step...well, it would be a full mental hospital and he would most likely never make it out, and I'm sure you can see how...undesirable that would be," Mycroft supplied, voice getting tighter still.

"Oh...thanks, I'll, um, keep that in mind. See you soon then," John finished before hanging up, trying not to let on to the tight feeling in his chest and the stinging at the back of his eyes.

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**Hope you liked! Please review!**

**Also, if anyone is interested, I recently published a new story on here, a sequel to one of my others, that'll be Johnlock romancy fluff and I would love some feedback on it!**

**Anyways, thanks again and see you very soon!**


	20. Chapter 20

**I meant to have this up yesterday, but the site was having all sorts of server problems and I couldn't get in long enough to upload! Sorry!**

**Also, I'd like to thank all the guests who have reviewed, as well as Rebel Against the Plaid Skirt (I didn't even need to look up Love Drunk, I ended up singing it in my head when you mentioned it! If I don't use it here, I'll add it to my list of songs for the song fic comp I'm working on!)**

**Anyways, hope you enjoy this relatively long chapter and I hope it makes up for the shorter chapter before!**

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It was so quiet here, John thought to himself as he looked around the large, airy lobby of the facility. A veritable sea of pale colors and glass, trickling fountains seeking to spread an aura of forced calm. Hallways, just as brightly lit as the lobby, branched off in all directions. There weren't many people around, mostly nurses and a few seemingly wealthy, grim faced older people that must be parents of patients here. He walked around nervously, eyes darting every which way as he made his way to the front desk, hands buried deep in his pockets.

"Um, hello. I'm here to visit someone...," John muttered, addressing the kind looking nurse behind the front desk.

"Oh of course, right this way," the nurse replied, motioning to one of the long, brightly lit hallways, and giving John an encouraging smile.

John nodded his thanks and followed the nurse, eyes scanning the room. He had been getting more and more nervous ever since he'd entered the large black car Mycroft had provided for him. Somehow he knew this wasn't going to end well. He just had this...feeling. If Sherlock hadn't made any progress by now, he certainly wouldn't be happy to see John. He would freak out, he would be angry. This was all so pointless. Sherlock didn't want help, he refused to accept it, refused to admit he even had a problem. John sighed softly to himself, careful not to let the nurse hear, and began rubbing at his sore wrists, feeling through his sleeves to make sure his bandages were still in place. Finally, after walking for what seemed like forever, the nurse stopped in front of a set of door, opening them wide and ushering him in.

The room was large and brightly lit, much like the rest of the facility. It was nicely furnished with large wooden tables and painted a calming green. It was quiet in here as well, all whispered conversations huddled around each other, cut by short, weak laughter every once in a while, as well as angered huffs and sobs. The room was full of people too, varying in ages and...states. The majority of the room was made up of teenagers, probably around his age, all dressed in bland, baggy clothing, only accentuating their overall thinness and grayness. Some looked better than others, with brighter eyes and pinker skin, shinier hair and small smiles ghosting their lips as friends regaled them with stories about what they were missing back home. But so many of the looked like corpses, thin as can be with dull eyes and brittle hair. Drug user and anorexics were probably the worst of the bunch, contributing to the haunting, quiet atmosphere of the room. There were parents too, tired looking and teary eyed, some hugging their children and others staring at them as if in contempt, obviously not happy with their progress and hating the fact that they had to spend money on their deadbeat, troublemaking children. John quickly scanned the room, looking for the mass of curly hair that belonged to Sherlock, probably the only thing that would differentiate him from the corpse-like droves of patients. He even looked for Mycroft. He found nobody. Sighing deeply, he walked over to one of the tables, dropping down into one of the chairs, waiting for either Mycroft or Sherlock to finally show. Honestly, he had expected this to happen.

He waited for well over an hour, eyes scanning the room every few minutes as it began to empty. Parents starting leaving, healthy looking teenagers said final goodbyes to friends, giving them helpful smiles and hugs, urging them to get better so they could get back to school. Looks like Sherlock wasn't going to show, and neither was Mycroft. This was all just a waste of time, he knew it. Sherlock was probably holed up in his room somewhere, refusing to come out or talk to anyone. John was about ready to give up and leave, head back to the car and drive back to school, when a kid about his age dropped down into the seat next to him, snaking his fingers into his curly, light brown hair and giving him a tentative smile.

"So...erm, are you new here? I don't think I've seen you around here," the teen started, giving him a quick once over.

John's eyebrows shot up to his forehead, did he really look that bad?

"Oh, no...I-I don't go...here. I'm, well, _I was_ supposed to be visiting a friend here," John replied.

The other boy's eyes widened, "Oh God, I'm sorry!"

John gave him a tired smile, "It's fine, I must look like shit right now anyways. So...did you have any visitors?" he asked, thankful for some polite conversation after such a long silence.

"Just my mum. She wants me to get better, you know? She's probably the only reason I'm here...," the other boy mumbled.

"Well that's nice I suppose. I'm John by the way," he said.

"Ulric. So...who were you supposed to be visiting?"

John swallowed hard before turning his head away, "Just an...an old roommate of mine. We used to be really close, but...some things happens and now he sorta hates me, and I was hoping we'd, I dunno, be able to patch things over and he could finally work through his issues and get him out of here, but he never showed."

"What's his name? I might, um, I might know where to find him," Ulric supplied.

"Uh, Sherlock Holmes."

"S-seriously? He's actually my roommate. I could go get him if you want," Ulric said, giving John a small smile.

John faltered slightly at the question. Did he want Ulric to go get Sherlock? Was he prepared to deal with what Sherlock was probably going to say, or not say, when he saw John? He kept flashing back to that time in the hospital room, watching on as Sherlock jerked and screamed until his throat was raw. Sherlock would have attacked him if it hadn't been for those restraints. It scared him, he was absolutely terrified. Until he'd gotten the call from Mycroft, until he'd ended up here, until he'd been forced with the prospect of facing Sherlock, he'd had this...stupid little flutter of hope. Maybe Sherlock really was getting better, maybe he'd realized he was being stupid and stubborn and wanted to talk to John and say he was sorry for what happened but wasn't allowed to. Maybe Mycroft just didn't have the time to get a hold of John, it would have been understandable, he was working himself to the bone between his father's prosecution and taking care of Sherlock and his own work with the government. It was a false sense of hope really, something that flashed through him every once in a while when his mind tried to tell him that what he was doing to himself was wrong and that Sherlock was just fine and that he was overreacting. It never lasted long. But his last refuge, his last bright spot had been shattered and it was going to be shattered even further if he agreed to meet with Sherlock. But he had to, didn't he? He had to get it over with, he had to leave all this behind. Heaving a deep breath, John turned to Ulric and nodded, twisting his hands into fists and trying not to fiddle with his sleeves.

* * *

Sherlock was lying on his back in his bed, sprawled out with his face buried in one of the few precious books he was allowed, a now boring (after dozens of re-readings) history of chemistry his therapist had provided after learning he had excelled in the subject at school, when his annoying as hell roommate walked in. He was too freaking nice, he always tried to talk to Sherlock, even though, in his mind, he made it perfectly clear that he had no intentions of talking. He acknowledged the other teenager with an eye roll and a frown, raising an eyebrow as if to question why he was being bothered.

"Erm, there was someone who wanted to see you down at the visiting room. We were all supposed to show up for that, but I guess you had...other plans...Anyways, they asked me to come get you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. Must be Mycroft, only interested in chewing him out about his "lack of cooperation and progress". Heaving a rather deep and dramatic sign, Sherlock rolled off the bed, hearing his joints pop and crack from his lack of movement, and strode out of the room, forcing Ulric to have to struggle to keep up.

They arrived at the visitor's center quickly, thanks to Sherlock's hurried pace. He just wanted to get this over with, and he knew that Mycroft would end up having the nurses forcibly remove him from his room if he didn't come on his own accord. He threw open the doors, scanning the near empty room for Mycroft. Nothing. His brother wasn't exactly hard to spot, he certainly was _large_ enough. He scanned the room once again, but felt his blood run cold as his eyes clapped on one of the emptied tables, only holding one person. What the fuck was he doing here? He narrowed his eyes, and continued staring, suddenly unable to move from his spot. He was still staring, lips curling into something between a frown and a snarl when the blonde head snapped up, eyes full of worry and fear. John shot up from his chair, rushing across the room as quickly as possible before Sherlock could escape out of the room.

"Sherlock...please. Please let me talk to you. I-I'm so sorry, so freaking sorry. I never meant...I never meant to hurt you I swear. I don't know what's going on, I don't understand why you hate me so much. but please just let me explain...I just...please," John begged, eyes shining.

Sherlock gave him a withering look, fucking pathetic piece of crap. He rolled his eyes and kept his mouth a tight line and clenching his jaw, grinding his teeth painfully to keep back the snapping retorts building up in his throat. This wasn't worth his time, he had nothing to say. Nothing to say at all. He'd been...fine...before John had come along. John had forced himself into Sherlock's life, made him feel like he was actually worth something, like anyone actually cared about him. Then he'd crushed it. He deserved everything he got. John had lied right to his face, and that made him absolutely fucking dead to Sherlock. He turned around on his heels, rushing from the room and pushing past Ulric, who had been making a futile attempt to guard the door. He was done with this place, done with all the nurses and doctors trying to shove their knowledge and help down his throat, done with this constant fucking battle against John and Mycroft and his father and his still a no show mother. He was done with this life and this world that tried to rip him apart at the seams, that refused him the only things that made him feel better simply because society thought they were "wrong" and "dangerous". The second these doctors forced him out, he was ending it, and nobody was going to stop him.

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**The end of the duos separation is dawning on the horizon my friends! But the story is far from over, so expect a wonderful, hopefully long, and hopefully beautiful and heartfelt chapter coming up in the next update and the updates to come!**

**Thanks for all the support and please give me some feedback!**

**Also, check out my new story, After the Storm, a sweeter, fluffier Johnlock/parent!lock :)**


	21. Chapter 21

**I'm just going to let you get to reading...**

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It was only when he collapsed in the backseat of the car that John became aware of the tears streaming steadily down his face. It was time to give up. John hadn't even bothered running after Sherlock, there was just no point to it. Sherlock would only give him that look again, and that look had shattered John's heart. The anger, the revulsion in it was enough to break him. It was over now, it was really over. There was absolutely nothing John could do for Sherlock anymore, there was no way he could help. He couldn't beat himself up over this any longer. He knuckled away the tears angrily, wishing he could just...forget about all this. He _needed_ to forget about it, even though the thought of forgetting Sherlock hurt him more than anything. He...he didn't want to forget Sherlock, all the incredible times they'd had together. He didn't want to forget the sound of Sherlock's laugh, the deep, smooth chuckle, or the beautiful music he could coax out of the violin. They were some of his favorite sounds. He didn't want to forget Sherlock's easy smile or the twinkle in his bright eyes. But it wasn't healthy, what he was doing to himself because of all this. He needed to just let go. Get back to school, suffer through this last year and get out of the hellhole and run from all the memories of Sherlock that seemed to haunt every corner of those damned buildings. He just needed to make it though another year, then he could move on with his life. It would still hurt, he knew deep down that the hurt would never go away, but maybe, just maybe, he could learn how to be okay without Sherlock.

John was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he barely registered the car stopping in front of a hotel. He blinked as bright, artificial light filtered through the open doors, and the chauffeur that had opened them motioned for him to leave the car. John sighed to himself, where could he possibly be now. He couldn't be at school or even at home. He heaved himself out of the car, and was greeted by none other than Mycroft Holmes, standing in front of a hotel.

John felt a scowl tug across his lips before he snapped, "What do you want? And for that matter, where the _hell_ were you?"

The iceman remained placid as ever, unfazed by John's scowl and angry tone, and replied calmly, "I'm dreadfully sorry Mr. Watson. I was...indisposed at the time. I had planned on being there to smooth things over between the two of you. It didn't go very well, I presume?"

"You're bloody right it didn't go well," John muttered under his breath, glaring angrily at the young man in front of him.

"I see. Well, I have arranged for you to attend one of his private therapy sessions tomorrow, it should allow the two of you to talk things through,"

John felt his brow furrow and the scowl slip further down his lips, "You know what Mycroft? I'm done with all this. There's no point to it, Sherlock doesn't care anymore. He's done and nobody can help him because he doesn't want to be helped! I can't do this anymore Mycroft, I really can't," John practically shouted. Mycroft needed to understand that it was over, that there was nothing anyone can do to stop Sherlock from doing what he wanted.

John was entirely unprepared for an angry Mycroft. It was the most terrifying thing he'd seen in his life and he hoped he would never need to see it again.

"Are you really going to give up that quickly?" Mycroft began in a startlingly low voice, "I thought you cared about him, I thought you truly cared? He hasn't had many people in his life John, you know that. They ridicule him, you must know that as well, and they always leave him, they always give up on him, they _always always _abandon him, even myself at one point. His father abused him, horribly so, his own mother hasn't called, hasn't even asked about him and how he is doing, and my own leaving, albeit temporary, is my greatest regret. He has been so alone for so long, and I had hoped that he would find someone like you, someone that cared for him like family, perhaps like something more. I thought you were different. But it's people like you, John Watson, that have made my brother who he is today."

No matter how much John wanted to pretend Mycroft was wrong, he couldn't. Sherlock had been alone his entire life, he was alone right now. He was trapped and scared and angry at the world, and he deserved all the anger he felt. He lashed out at people and pushed them away because he didn't want to be hurt anymore, it was what he was doing right now. Was he any better than all the rest of the world? Could John really turn him away, could John really give up? No...he couldn't. He...he didn't want to be one of those people, he hated them more than anything. He had to try one more time, just give it one more shot. He had to save Sherlock or he would never, ever forgive himself for becoming like all the others.

"Fine. I'll do it," John managed to whisper, too ashamed of what he'd said to look Mycroft in the face.

"Very well. You'll stay here for the night and return to the facility in the morning," Mycroft replied, still slightly angry, and handed John a hotel key, as well as a small bag with a change of clothes his men must have gathered from his room back at school.

Later that night, John gratefully collapsed onto the hotel bed and fell asleep almost immediately, emotionally exhausted from the past day and knowing it would only get worse tomorrow.

* * *

Sherlock was roused from his fitful sleep by the obligatory knock on the door early the next morning. Probably one of the nurses making sure he was awake and ready for the day of pointless therapies. He had a private session today. Those were always the worst. He would sit there for an hour, watching the clock, listening to whatever white noise the therapist thought to provide on that day, and waiting for his time to be up so he could retreat back to his room. Sometimes, he'd take a quick trip to his mind palace in an attempt to reorganize the cluttered thoughts and twisted feeling this whole experience had produced. Hearing another rap on the door, he tossed himself over, groaning, and propped himself up on his elbows, looking over at the bed on the other side of the room. Empty. Ulric must be already down in the cafeteria. Sherlock dressed quickly, throwing on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt (not caring that the other guests would stare at his prominent scars), knowing the nurses would only barge into the room and invade his personal space and privacy if he wasn't up and out of the room soon.

The cafeteria was hell, as usual. He pushed his food idly around his plate while the mindless chatter around him buzzed angrily in his mind, contributing to the headache he'd had ever since he'd been sent here. He tossed the plastic spoon down angrily, lowering his head into his hands, resting his elbows on the table, and letting himself wander in his mind palace.

"Sherlock?", a quiet voice questioned, echoing in his mind palace and pulling him out.

Sherlock cracked open his eyes, wincing as the florescent lights above him stung them.

Eyes adjusting to the light, Sherlock realized who'd sit in front of him. Ulric. Great, just what he needed right about now. He puffed out a sigh, turning his attention back to his lumpy, bland food.

"Look...Sherlock, I-I know it might not really be my place to say anything...but...I, well, I met with that, erm, old...roommate or friend or whatever of yours, John. He- he seemed really sorry about what happened, and...and I think he really does care about you. I dunno...I just...don't think you should be shutting people out like that, you should be happy that someone cares enough to come visit," Ulric stammered out, eyes shifting nervously and hoping to not provoke one of Sherlock's now famous and frankly terrifying death glares.

Sherlock only barely heard what Ulric was saying, he blocked everything out after hearing "John". He didn't want to think about John, not now especially. He decided on it, it was over between them and he wasn't going to waste any more of his brain power thinking about him. He abruptly pushed his chair out, ignoring the angry outburst from the people around him. He made his way to the trash cans, and tossed the contents of his still full tray, ignoring the looks on the nurse's face and leaving the room, despite the fact that they'd yet to be dismissed.

Hours later, Sherlock heard another knock on the door. Lazily rolling his bleary, probably red-rimmed eyes and tossing himself over, he craned his neck and peeked at the digital clock on his bedside table. He huffed out another heavy sigh as he hauled himself up. Time for his private session. He shuffled out of the room, glaring at the nurse as she escorted him to the therapy rooms in an attempt to make sure he didn't run off, something he'd already tried multiple times. They finally stopped in front of the door, the white noise machine just outside the room drowning out all sound that could possibly be heard though the thin walls with the supposedly calming sounds of rain. He shoved open the door, ready to collapse again on the thankfully comfortable couch and just ignore the world for the next hour, listening to the fake rain drum on a fake tin roof and let the time slip by.

When he gave the room an obligatory scan before collapsing on the black leather sofa, Sherlock's heart skipped several beats and his blood ran cold, yet again. John was sitting on the couch across from Sherlock, hands folded awkwardly across his lap, stealing quick, nervous glances at the therapist and Sherlock both. He was dressed haphazardly, in a too large sweatshirt and old jeans, the complete opposite from the jumpers and crisp button downs he usually wore. His hair was longer, falling into his tired eyes, which were rimmed in heavy dark circles. He almost looked...thinner to Sherlock, more worn out and absolutely exhausted. Not his problem though, Sherlock thought to himself as he lowered himself down into his seat, scowl already forming on his face and tugging the corners of his lips down.

"Alright Sherlock, nice of you to join us," his therapist, an older man with graying hair and a scratchy voice, began, "I suppose you can guess what were doing here. Your brother arranged for John to sit in on one of these sessions, something we only allow in...special cases."

Sherlock scoffed, internally of course. "Special case" must mean Mycroft paid them off to allow John to be here. Made sense. His stupid brother refused to give Sherlock the satisfaction of getting out of this hellhole, of finally being free. He can't honestly think that having John come in would help, can he? He wasn't that thick.

His angry thoughts about Mycroft were interrupted by that damned scratchy voice again, "Now John, I'd like for you to talk to Sherlock, tell him how you feel about this whole situation. And Sherlock, you are going to listen, or we will stay here until you make progress," the therapist, whose name Sherlock frankly couldn't remember, said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, might as well play along, it'll get him out of here faster. He turned his attention to John, piercing him with his own steely glare, hoping more than anything to make the blonde boy's skin crawl.

John shifted uncomfortably and fidgeted with his sleeves before clearing his throat and beginning, "Sherlock...I-I just...I don't understand what's going on with you. I-I get that you probably feel hurt, and I totally understand why you would feel that way. I know now that you've dealt with a lot of...abandonment issues, I guess, and you just want to protect yourself from being hurt again. But...but I don't know why you think I'd want to hurt you or that I'd leave you or that I don't care. I screwed up, I know that, but it...it was just a mistake, I swear. I would never pick those other guys over you they mean nothing to me compared to you, and I didn't...I didn't mean to not be there for you. You need to understand that I feel terrible that I-I wasn't there when you needed me, I feel so guilty about it. But...a long time ago I promised you I wasn't going anywhere. Do you remember that Sherlock? It-it was right after I found out about you self-harming. You thought I was going to leave, you thought I'd run like everyone else. And I don't plan on _ever _giving up on you Sherlock because, despite what other people seem to think, you are worth all the effort in the world. You matter Sherlock...you really, really matter, at least to me. I miss you like crazy...school, it's hell without you there. The way everyone treats me...it didn't bother me before, but now...without you there to talk to...it hurts so much, and I know how you felt, in...more ways than one I suppose. You...you're just incredible, even if you can be an absolutely stubborn tosser, and you deserve so much more than you give yourself credit for. You deserve to be happy..." John finally trailed off, voice cracking slightly with emotion at the end. He fidgeted with his sleeve again, pulling it down to cover his thumbs, a gesture that seemed...eerily familiar to Sherlock.

There was a part of Sherlock, a tiny, infinitesimal part of him that wanted nothing more than to run over to John and hug him. It had been there the entire time, really, he'd just had better control over it. He'd kept it in check. But now, with John sitting in front of him, looking, and probably feeling, like hell and making all these emotional confessions...it only made that part grow stronger. He wanted to believe John, more than anything he wanted to be able to get out of here and _not _want to end it. He wanted to be normal, he wanted to be with John. He wanted to laugh, and smile, and study, and play violin. A war was raging in Sherlock's mind right now, threatening to tear everything to shreds. Everything he knew, everything he'd gained from past experience, told him to ignore John, that people only sought to hurt him, that relationships only brought trouble and he should avoid them. Alone was what he had, and alone protected him. He needed to be alone, right? But on some level he craved the normalcy John presence had brought his life, he craved the care and affection and the feelings and memories John gave him. He loved smiling and laughing and seeing John smile and laugh in turn. He loved the feeling of having a friend, it was a feeling that was so new and tenuous to him, a feeling he'd never really felt before. John represented everything that was good about his life, John represented acceptance and everything that was good in the world. John was the bright spot in his eternal darkness, and with every passing minute sitting on that black sofa, listening to the soft patter of the artificial rain noises, the bright spot grew and grew in intensity, drowning out more of the darkness than Sherlock ever thought possible.

Throughout his entire internal monologue, Sherlock continued to rub at his wrists, feeling the bumpy, raised scars, a habit he'd picked up when he first started harming and that had been newly resurrected...wait. Sherlock stole a quick glance over at John, who was rubbing his wrists too, and tugging at his sleeves he'd used to do...like he was hiding something. No. No. Not possible. Not even remotely possible. No...he...but...John wouldn't...he wouldn't...no...never. He would never do that to himself, right? Right? Feeling sick to his stomach, Sherlock pointed to the therapist and jerked his thumb to the exit, hoping the man would grant his request for some alone time. The older man's eyes widened considerably before glancing over at John, who nodded, as if saying it was alright to leave them alone. Sherlock let out a tiny sigh of relief before his nerves tightened back up again. If there was ever a time Sherlock wished his skills of deduction were faulty, it was right now.

When Sherlock registered the soft thunk of the door being shut, he pounced on John quick as a cat, grabbing his wrists before John even had time to react. He gripped them firm, like iron, and without even making eye contact, bunched up the sleeves to the elbow. He had been right. The pale skin, which several months ago had been completely clear, was flecked with short, shallow red cuts. The traveled up the sides of his arm to the crook of his elbow, nothing more than short, quick dashes to the skin, a quick flick of the razor, just enough to draw blood. Sherlock could hear his pulse thrumming in his head, he could feel himself blinking, it felt like the entire world was standing still. He wanted to vomit, wanted to be sick at the though of John in the same position he had been. John leaning against the toilet on the white tile floor of the school's bathroom, razor poised over his wrists. His head swam with these images, and, after what felt like several minutes, Sherlock released his grip on John's wrists, vaguely aware of the way his own hands were trembling violently. He collapsed with his back to the sofa, breathing in deeply and letting each breath out through his nose, trying not to sob as he felt the beginnings of tears rushing down his cheeks and dripping off his sharpened cheekbones, forming large, dark splotches on his light gray t-shirt. He looked up at John, eyes full of tears.

"I-I didn't...I d-didn't know what to do Sherlock. I felt s-s-so horrible Sherlock...about...about everything I-I put you through. I felt so, so guilty about n-not being there w-when you-you need me and I-I-I just...I just didn't know what to do anymore and so-so-so I...it-it just happened and I'm sorry...," John was abruptly cut of by a body crashing into him, pulling him into a tight and deep a hug as possible. John stifled a gasp as he felt Sherlock wrap his arms around him and bury his sharp face in John's still bulky shoulder, sobbing violently as his bony chest heaved with each breath. John hugged him back, burying his own face in Sherlock's neck as Sherlock sobbed into his shoulder, crying out all the pain and fear and sadness from these past few weeks, all the pain his father and the people around him had caused him. Sherlock cried out every repressed feeling, every stifled emotion that had been held back behind the hard, cold mask. Slowly, John could feel the breathing soften and slow back to normal, no longer choking, heart wrenching sobs but deep breaths, in through the mouth and out through the nose. He looked down at the fragile figure he was holding tightly, eyes glassing over and new tears joining those already running down his cheeks, and his heart skipped a beat when he finally heard Sherlock croak in an incredibly hoarse and choppy voice, "I'm the one that should be sorry."

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**So...that takes the cake as the longest thing I have ever written...**

**Anyways, Sherlock isn't out of the woods just yet, but you can all rest safe in the knowledge that the two will be back together soon enough and that they will both be okay!**

**This story is far from over, and I just want to thank you for bearing with me with this really depressing part of the story, and I promise, things will get better for the both of them :)**

**Please, I'd love some feedback on this, just to make sure it's actually as good as I think it is...**


	22. Chapter 22

**Thanks so much for taking the time to read! I recently hit 80 followers and that is just so insane and I can't even thank you guys enough for all the support!**

**Also, sorry this chapter is a bit short, but Sherlock and John's separation is almost over, so that's pretty nice!**

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Slowly, John and Sherlock disentangled from their tight embrace. Neither of them wanted to let go, neither of them _ever_ wanted to be without the other. But they did have to let go, and Sherlock collapsed heavily back onto the sofa next to John. And so they sat their, Sherlock wiping his eyes and John giving the shaking figure curled up against the arm of the sofa next to him a tiny smile. Because despite everything that had happened, despite how bittersweet this whole situation, John knew things would be alright. Sherlock finally understood just how much he meant to John, how much they needed each other to function properly. John knew that Sherlock had missed him terribly, and Sherlock knew that John needed him back in his life. He knew Sherlock would get better now, all he had to do was apply himself and he would be out of here soon enough. John smirked softly to himself as he imagined all the other students faces, especially Anderson's, when Sherlock walked down the halls. Perhaps he shouldn't be smiling, but he couldn't help it. Things were going to be okay, things were finally, finally going to be okay after nearly a month of worrying and horrible pain, and it made John happier than he had been in a long time.

John felt happy about what had happened between them, he was relieved, Sherlock knew this. He could tell from the change in body language, from the tiny smirk on his face and the way his eyes had brightened considerably. But Sherlock couldn't be further from happiness. He was...disgusted with himself, he couldn't believe the way he had acted. He was selfish and stubborn and stupid and frankly, he didn't think he deserved John's forgiveness. John may think he had destroyed Sherlock's life, but the damage had been done a long time ago. But Sherlock...he'd come this close to destroying John. He hated himself so much for that, for cracking John, for breaking him, for shattering him. John had always been so strong, the absolute opposite of Sherlock. He wasn't damaged, he wasn't afraid of his emotions. He was normal, he was happy. But Sherlock had damaged him, he destroyed everything he touched, even if he didn't mean it. He was the bad influence on John. Without him, John never would have been in this position. If it wasn't for him, John might never have even considered self-harming as an option. He pushed John into this, the horrible, dark hole he'd lived in for so long. He was still in the hole, for that matter, he had yet to escape back to the world of the light, the world of the truly living. He had created this horrible problem for John, and he knew better than anyone how hard it would be for John to stop. He knew the amount of self-hatred John would feel, the revulsion with himself, with what he was doing to himself. You hated having to do this, you hated the way it made you feel because it was sick and wrong to feel that way about pain. You hated the way it held you back, the way it made other people pity you and look down on you. But more than anything, you hated how you needed it, the way you relied on it. Sherlock knew all these things, he understood them. He knew how hard it was, he knew how hard John would have it, and it worried Sherlock to his very core. It would be a week at the least before Sherlock would be able to get out of here. It would probably take longer. A week was a long time for someone in that position. And John...he had to go back to school, back to all the bullying and the pain and it would hurt so much He hoped more than anything that this closure would be enough to tide John over until they could be together again. Sherlock knew he would make promises to stop, but he wasn't sure if John knew what he was about to go through.

Eventually, John had to leave. He couldn't stay forever. Tears were shed on Sherlock's part again, angry tears. Anger about being having John taken from him again, anger at himself for keeping this going for so long, for not forgiving John before now, for hurting John. They could have had more time together, Sherlock had wasted so much time. He was scared, he didn't want John to leave. He was scared for John and scared for himself. So he made sure John left with a promise, even though, with Sherlock's experience, promises meant little or nothing. People made promises, people broke promises. Sherlock had broken so many promises, ones he'd made with himself and ones he'd made with other. But John still believed in promises, so Sherlock made one with him. John would stop hurting himself if Sherlock agreed to cooperate and get the help he needed. There was no way in the world Sherlock could ignore the request. So he agreed. He would start talking to his therapist, he would try his best to answer the man's questions, whatever they may be. He dig deep, he wouldn't be afraid of his emotions anymore. He would let go of his mask, he would let someone else in, someone who could help. He would get to the route of his problems, he would find ways to get better, ways to cope better. He would start talking to the others too, John encouraged him to talk to Ulric, since they seemed to have a lot in common and the other boy seemed very nice. But more than anything, John made sure that Sherlock understood how much he meant to him, made him understand that he would always, _always _be there, from now until the end of his days.

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**QUESTION TIME!**

**1) The legal drinking age (like, walk into a bar and get a drink) is 18, correct? Trying to map out some of the later chapters, and need this confirmed as soon as possible. Wikipedia is sorta confusing on all this stuff, and being American, I have no concept of legally drinking under 21...**

**2) Does anyone have any ideas for some more John-based plot lines? The next big one I have planned is very Sherlock centered, and I know we just got done with one and I feel sorta bad about pushing John off to the side. Angsty and happy ideas alike would be great!**

**Bye for now, and don't worry, the two are almost back together! One more chapter to go, I think.**


	23. Chapter 23

**So I'd like to preface this chapter with a suggestion: You should all listen to the song Miserable at Best by Mayday Parade because it is a really great song that the title of this story is taken from. I love the song to death, and this story is sorta inspired by bits and pieces of it and is leaning towards the general idea of the song as time progresses. So, just, like, give it a listen...you won't be disappointed!**

**Anyways, hope you enjoy the update...**

**Disclaimer: I haven't magically acquired the rights to Sherlock since the last time I posted a disclaimer, I just got lazy...**

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It took a week and a half before the doctors (and to some degree, Mycroft) decided Sherlock was ready to leave. He'd made progress, even if it was only obvious to the doctors, because once they understood his motives, they could give him suggestions as how to get over it. They talked about his father a lot. How he felt about what had happened to him all these years. The therapist asked him to talk about the day leading up to the suicide attempt that landed him here. He agreed to talk, and he told the man all he was comfortable with. They talked a lot about school too, about how the other students treated him. He was honest with that too. Learning more about his life, the doctors were able to help pinpoint his motives for all the destruction he brought upon himself. He self-harmed to focus the pain elsewhere, he self-harmed to calm himself down and release everything he'd pent up inside. He should draw or write or paint or play violin when he felt like hurting himself again, it was a much better outlet for his emotions. Sherlock already knew that worked, so he would start again. If he was ever feeling hurt, if the bullying got worse, he should talk to someone about it, even if it was just John. That should be able to help too, and John would be able to make sure he didn't hurt himself. The drugs and alcohol were easy to pinpoint, simple chemistry. He used cocaine (however rarely) when he needed to think, when he needed an extra jolt. He drank when he needed to slow down, when he wanted forget and make everything stop hurting for a while. He used heroin for some of the same reasons, to calm his mind back to a soft, blurry buzz so that maybe he could manage some sleep. Morphine served the same purpose when he could get his hands on it. They were both much better at calming him than self-harming. Painkillers were used as painkillers, for when his father broke his ribs or for when he cut too deep. It was easy to understand why, but it was a whole other thing to figure out how to stop. He craved them, he wanted to fall into a blissful high more than anything. Nothing bothered him when he was high, nothing could hurt him. They allowed him to control his mind, to set it at a snail's pace or make it race. He had no idea what he would do if he felt like using again, self-harm had always been his go to when he didn't have access to the drugs and the situation turned sour and he needed the release. But using again wasn't as much of a concern now. He'd gotten used to his periods of forced sobriety at school, going on binges when he had to go home, managing to get himself to London every summer to at least marginally replenish is stocks using money he stole from his father or pick pocketed from tourists. But at school he didn't have access to drugs that hard. He could always scrounge up cigarettes, and maybe there was someone on campus selling pot from his dorm room, but for the most part, Sherlock wasn't going to worry about that until later. College would be rough, being in such close proximity to all the questionable behavior, he didn't have to worry now, not yet.

But all this was easier said than done. He could promise the doctors and Mycroft all he wanted that he wouldn't start this destructive cycle all over again, but could he make that promise to himself? Was he confident in his own ability to resists, and was he confident that John would be there to catch him? Regardless, the doctors deemed him fit to reenter society with a steady supply of anxiety pills and antidepressants provided, of course, by the school nurse. He couldn't be trusted, not anymore.

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John was walking down the hallway one Saturday afternoon, massive amounts of textbooks shoved under his arms and threatening to split his bag in two, when he came upon his dorm room and saw a note taped to the door. Quickly managing to snatch it up, he somehow managed to open the door without any free hands and burst into the room, tossing the books onto his bed. He sank down into his desk chair, smoothing out the slightly crumpled letter written on the school's official stationary. He scanned the letter quickly, smirking as he read the next line. He was being asked by the school to switch rooms. That could only mean one thing, Sherlock was coming back. He felt a short laugh slip past his lips, glad he was alone in the room. He could hardly believe this was happening, and so soon after they talked things out. This whole thing must be Mycroft's doing, the school probably wouldn't have allowed such a late in the year room change if it wasn't such a special circumstance. Frankly, John wasn't sure if anyone in the school would have been okay with rooming with Sherlock, and it was probably saving a lot of time and complaining by getting this over with quickly. He scanned the letter again, making sure he'd gotten everything right and picked up any details he'd missed. The school wanted him in his new room by Sunday so he could be ready to greet his new roommate, who would be arriving Monday for the beginning of classes. Once again, John felt a smile tug at his lips at the thought of the other students finding out he was back. He was glad Sherlock was coming Monday instead of Sunday, maybe he would just nonchalantly walk into classes that morning like nothing was wrong. God, John would savor the look on those asshole's faces. He couldn't wait. Hoping up from the chair, he made short work of packing his things back into his bags, entirely too excited about Sherlock finally coming back to wait.

John was bounding off the walls with excitement when he woke up early Monday morning, his new room already moved into. The day was finally here, Sherlock was finally coming back and things could finally be okay. John was even happier because he had been able to keep his promise. He hadn't cut since he'd made the agreement with Sherlock. He was totally clean and it felt wonderful. Not feeling twinge when he moved wrong or when the fabric of his shirts caught, not having to worry about blood spotting his white button down. It was wonderful not having to worry about it anymore, and he doubted he would have to worry about it anymore. As long as he had Sherlock, things would be alright, he wouldn't need to do this to himself. Rubbing his eyes and yawning, he rolled himself over and checked his phone. His eyes widened. Text from Mycroft. He felt his heart tug, it could be bad news. Steadying his breathing, he opened the text, only to find that the message was telling him Sherlock would be there in half an hour. The next came twenty minutes ago! Scrambling out of bed, he managed to jump in the shower and change into clean clothes before hearing the knock of the door.

He bolted over, nearly tripping on the corner of the bed, before sending the door flying open. Sherlock was standing in front of the door, suitcase by his feet and hands in his pockets, head down. He looked down slightly at the shorter boy, trying to understand what he was thinking, if he'd kept his promise. Before Sherlock could even register several things, John pulled him into a bone crunching hug which Sherlock only loosely reciprocated.

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**I wanted to have this up earlier, but pop-punk pizza parties and bonfires and cute bands and tour planning got in the way...SORRY (Also the fact that I seemingly posted the same chapter twice...)!**

**Also, sorry if this chapter kinda sucks, I knew I needed to get something out there since I wouldn't be able to post again in a few days. Next update will come Thursday at the earliest, but probably later :) and if anyone had ideas for John-based plot strings, let me know! PM or comment, I don't care, I just hate ignoring John and I feel like that's what I'm doing now :(**

**Thanks for taking the time to read, and I promise things will pick up again soon enough!**


	24. Chapter 24

**So this chapter is sorta random...**

**Anyways, warning! This chapter gets a bit touchy and I am warning that the following things get pretty graphic: abuse, self harm, and drug use. Nothing that hasn't been in this fic before, but I thought I'd warn you since this one goes into more detail.**

**Italics are dreams.**

**Disclaimer: Still don't own Sherlock, and also, readers discretion advised **

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_So many years, and the nightmares were almost always the same. He was falling, he always felt like he was falling. Tumbling into thick, pitch black darkness the likes of which could never be found. And still, despite the darkness, shadows seem to flicker around him, warping themselves into horrible images. They are always the same. They are his memories, the most horrible he has, his darkest moments, playing back in front of his closed eyes. He hears things at first. The rough shouts and angry growls that belong to his father. High-pitched, childish screams. They belong to him. Suddenly, the shouts and shrieks disappear, if only for a moment, replaced by images, flickering before his mind, figures made of darkness and shadows before sharpening. A man, his father, standing over a little boy, himself. The noise starts up again. The little boy screams and tries to twist away, but he can't. His father's grip is like iron on his slim wrist, and he shouts out in pain and the large man grabs for his arm too. This grip is harder, and pain like fire burns through him, straight to the bone. A menacing smile splits across the man's face, and the little boy can smell alcohol on his father's breath. The little boy tries to keep his face steady, crying will only make it worse, crying will only make Father hurt him more. The fight to stay composed doesn't last long. The little boy is shoved down to the ground roughly, and he sticks his hands out to try to break his fall. He feels something snap and it hurts so much. A sharp, burning pain sending shockwaves through his body. Blinded by the pain and tears streaking down his face, the little boy manages to turn himself over in time for his father's heavy shoe to rest itself of the shuddering chest. The tip digs into his skin, and he only barely registers it. The worst is yet to come, he knows that by now. The large man gives the little boy an experimental kick to the side, knocking the boy's breath out, forcing him to wheeze and gasp. He gives several more short kicks, each harder and drawing out more and more pain. The final kick rolls him over onto his stomach, pinning his hurting wrist underneath him. He knows things are almost over though, just one more step. The little boy hears his father unclasp his belt, and waits for the sharp, searing pain on his back. Each slash of the leather opens another cut, and the little boy's screams and cries are muffled by the thick carpet. Finally, his father leaves and the little boy is left to cry alone. Hours or maybe minutes later, the maid finds him on the floor of the drawing room, shuddering violently and sobbing just as hard, tiny chest heaving with the effort. He calls out for Mycroft, wishing his brother was there to hold him and hug him and keep him safe like brothers should. He needs his brother and he isn't there, he won't be for a long time, but he keeps begging anyway. The maid takes him in her arms and tries to soothe him, pushing stray curls out of swollen eyes and trying to clean the blood off his face with her apron. She tears her eyes away from the crying child in her arms for a moment, looking across the room towards the telephone. Even with his fuzzy mind, he can tell she was scared. She lays him down gently, and walks across the room, careful not to make the floorboards creak. The little boy turns his head to watch, hoping she'll be able to call for help before his father decides to come downstairs again. She doesn't. The little boy shudders even harder as his father steps calmly into the room, gently taking the phone from the young maid's hand and placing it back on the table. He explains that there was simply no need to call for an ambulance, they could have a doctor here much quicker. The maid opens her mouth as if to protest, but the boy's father grips her arm tightly, hard enough to bruise. She falls silent, but steals one more terrified glance at the little body curling in on himself before she flees the room. _

_The image fades there, dulling around the edges as the memory loses clarity. But the nightmares never end. He starts falling again, still hearing the shrill shrieks and dark chuckles echo from the darkness surrounding him. He keeps on falling until the dark little world shudders to a stop and the next memory starts playing. An older boy this time, sitting on the edge of his bed. He isn't any more than twelve, he can't be. He is small and pale and thin, yet to hit the growth spurt that would shoot him up to six feet tall by the time he reaches fifteen. Dark hair obscures his face, hiding his pale eyes, but also the bruises across his face. More bruises, shaped in the likeness of his father's large fingers, snake their way up the exposed skin of his arm. One hand traces the blue veins, clearly visible behind his seemingly translucent skin. He has a razor primed in the other. It's the beginning of a very dark time, this is only the second time he's tried this. He's found that he needs the release though, after a sound beating. He wishes he had found this sooner. He brings the razor across his skin, a quick flick and everything pours out of him in one gush. Every emotion, every feeling, every memory. He keeps at it, opening several more cuts before storing the blade in the drawer that would come to hold much more._

_This memory fades too, like all the others. He is falling again, but this fall is shorter. The images spin back again, and this time, the boy is even older, a teenager now. He is taller now, and even thinner, the outline of his bones visible on his exposed arms. He fills the needle with clear liquid from an unmarked vial. He know it's too much. He doesn't care. Setting the needle down, he ties a tourniquet around his upper arm, pulling it tighter with his teeth and making the scant muscles bulge. He rubs at the vein, raising it to the surface, and expertly guides the needle into the crook of his elbow, depressing the plunger in one fluid motion. He takes in a shuddering breath as he slips the needle out, tossing it to the side. He clutches the crook of his elbow and moves is arm, flexing his hand as he slips against the headboard of his bed. Everything is fading to white now. He knows he's dying and he doesn't care..._

_The nightmare didn't end there though. In the past, it always had. He would wake up after the last horrible memory in a cold sweat, screaming and breathing heavily. But it wasn't over, he was still falling. He was falling and spinning and he couldn't stop. He couldn't wake up. One final image began to spin into sight, but it kept flickering back and forth. It wasn't as clear as the others. It wasn't a real memory. It wasn't something that had happened to him. Because he saw John, John holding a blade to his wrist. John cutting himself, blood bubbling to the surface. John's face, lined with sadness. Tears running down his best friend's cheeks and dotting is blood streaked arms. Everything in his mind shook, the images were unstable. He keeps flickering back and forth between the horrifying pictures and the overwhelming darkness..._

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John woke up in the middle of the night and groaned when he looked over at his alarm clock. It was way to early to be awake. He collapsed back on the bed when he was about to turn over on his side when he heard a small whimper coming from the other side of the room. He instantly perked up, fumbling with the lamp on his bedside table. He looked across the room, and saw Sherlock's form twisted in a mass of blankets. Every so often, his friend would jerk and twist over, mumbling something unintelligible or letting out small cries. Worried for his friend, John crept over to his Sherlock's side, trying to find out what was going on. When made it over there, he peeled back the blankets and found Sherlock's face buried in a pillow, only half of it showing in the low light. His eyes were shut tight, his face scrunched up in pain and dripping with sweat, fists curling and uncurling as he gripped the sheets and dug his fingernails into his palms. All the while, he continued to let out small whimpering sounds, like a hurt animal. He must be having a nightmare. John reached his hand out, pushing a few damp curls off Sherlock's forehead and moving to grip his hand before giving him a light shake to the shoulder, trying to get him to wake up. He whispered encouragements in the other boy's ear, urging him to wake up and ensuring that it was only a dream. He stayed there, kneeling by his friend's bed until he woke up with a shuddering breath, heaving his chest up and down. The twisted form in front of him continued to breath heavily, and the hand in his clamped down hard. John watched on worriedly as Sherlock's eyes cracked open, not sure if he should take Sherlock to the infirmary.

"It's fine Sherlock," John whispered, "It's okay. It was only a dream, I promise. Nobody can hurt you here, and I'm fine. You can calm down now, okay? Are you alright?"

Sherlock barely managed to nod before his face crumpled again, and he broke down sobbing quiet tears, tearing his hand away from John and turning over, hugging a pillow to his chest and pulling the covers over his face.

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**Any thoughts on this? I know it was kinda random...**

**Also, thanks for all the awesome support! I recently hit over 10,000 views and I'm pretty proud of that :) Thanks to everyone who rereads this story especially, it makes me happy to see that people are enjoying it enough to reread!**

**I hope to update soon, because I have a three day weekend :D**


	25. Chapter 25

**I feel really bad that I didn't have this up sooner! I was so busy and I have this big presentation in English and I had a concert and I had tons of homework and studying and a marginal social life...so yeah. Here you go, I hope you enjoy this.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock or any of the characters...**

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The vibration of the alarm woke John up a few hours later, and he rubbed at his eyes before looking across the room to his friend's bed. He let out a deep sigh, rubbing his temples with his free hand while hitting the snooze with his other. Last night had been...scary to say the least. Seeing his friend so unhinged, so hysterical, was horrible and he never wanted to have to see him again. Some part of him wanted to know what the nightmare was about, what could possibly have ignited such a reaction, but he knew he shouldn't pry. Sherlock would just shut down again and ignore him, it had happened before and eventually it would happen again. He'd been back for less than a day and he'd barely said anything. John tried to talk to him, tried anything he could think of to get him to come around, but nothing worked. He wasn't totally silent, thankfully, but he was still much quieter than before, only speaking when answering a direct question, and only when shrugs and hums of affirmation weren't enough to satisfy his roommate. It worried John to no end. He knew that things would be slow going, that Sherlock definitely wouldn't be back to his old self so quickly, but he'd expected...something more than this. They were back to blank looks and guarded emotions and it could only get worse too, today was Sherlock's first day back in classes and John knew that things weren't going to go well. The bullies, especially Anderson, would have a field day with him. Shoving him, tripping him, knocking the books out of his arms. The teachers would stand aside, turning a blind eye to the obvious physical bullying. The name calling would start up again too, slurs whispered in both their ears as they passed down the hallways. The teachers didn't care about that either, they didn't care about anything. So the only thing they could both do now was wait. Wait to get out of this stupid school and wait for Sherlock to get better. Sighing to himself again, John got out of bed and went over to Sherlock's side to shake him awake. Just as he was about to reach his hand out, he saw the covers slip back, revealing Sherlock's face. The pale eyes fluttered towards him for a few seconds before slipping back down to stare at the wall.

Startled, John pulled his hand back quickly before managing to stutter out, "Oh! You're awake...that's good. You should get up soon, classes start in half an hour."

Sherlock managed a small nod in return before untangling himself from the nest of blankets surrounding him. John walked over to his wardrobe, turning his back to his friend. He grabbed some clothes and turned around, about to head to the bathroom for a quick shower, just as Sherlock was stripping out of his damp t-shirt and stretching, back turned towards John. Now, John thought he could see faint scars streaking across the thin back, silvery-white against pale skin, running across protruding shoulder blades and the knobs of his spine down towards his slim waist. He'd never noticed them before. He tore his eyes away from the skeletal body and walked into the bathroom.

When he emerged from the bathroom, hair still damp from his shower, Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, now fully dressed. John sank down next to him, giving him a small smile.

"So, first day back, eh? It'll be nice having you around here again...at least for me. I missed this, but I guess you knew that already," John remarked, chuckling slightly in an attempt to diffuse the tension.

Sherlock shrugged.

John looked over at his friend, noticing how exhausted and pale he looked. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles and they seemed bloodshot. The nightmare had really taken a toll on him, more so than John had thought.

"About last night...You don't have to be, like, ashamed about it or anything. Everyone has nightmares, I get it and I won't push you to talk about it if you don't want to. But if you ever feel like talking, I'm here for you," John added, placing a heavy hand on Sherlock's knee.

Sherlock simply shrugged again, but caught the crestfallen look on John's face out of the corner of his eye.

"Alright...I'll keep that in mind," Sherlock managed to choppily force out, hoping that would be enough to make John feel better, he knew that John was worried about him. He got up suddenly, grabbing his bag and walking over to the door, waiting for John to follow him.

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The two walked down the hallway, Sherlock keeping his head down, but John keeping his head up, watching out for trouble. Clusters of other students clogged up the hallways, laughing wildly and pushing each other around. But their faces fell and their laughs died in their throats when they saw Sherlock walking down the hallway. Some did double takes, craning their necks to see if it was really him. Others wore looks of surprise or curiosity, turning to their friends and whispering quietly. The newer students looked scared, they all knew from the older boys that Sherlock meant trouble, that he was someone they should be afraid of, someone they should never talk to, someone they should run away from. He was a freak, a violent psychopath that would probably beat them to a pulp if he got a chance. Plenty wore looks of disgust though. It was expected. John shot these boys glares, as if warning them to try anything. John knew he wasn't going to let anyone even touch Sherlock.

The other students stayed away, for the most part, and John and Sherlock were able to make it to their first class together without any trouble. They walked in the door together, silencing the room. The students all looked up from their desks, eyes piercing the duo. Even the teacher faltered slightly at the sight of Sherlock, directing him towards the back of the classroom. John watched on carefully as Sherlock made his way to the back of the class, lowering himself in his own seat up in the front. He didn't however, notice Anderson "casually" stretch, giving a wide yawn and conveniently sticking his leg out while Sherlock passed. The thinner boy stumbled as his foot got caught, nearly falling to his knees and dropping the books clutched tightly against his chest. He caught himself on one of the desks and righted himself, moving to his seat quickly, and John could see his face redden from across the room. Anderson and his friends sniggered, punching each other in the arm and high fiving. The teacher saw nothing, typical. Out of the corner of his eyes, John gave Anderson a warning glare, but the other boy smirked at him in return. Just as the lesson was starting, John turned around to catch a glimpse at Sherlock, who was staring at the board, eyes looking completely blank to the untrained eye. John could see the sadness in them though.

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He had to skip lunch, he couldn't do this anymore. He knew John would be expecting him there, and he knew John would get really worried if he didn't show, but he couldn't do this. He couldn't face them, their insults and their shoving and their laughs. He walked up to their room, keeping his head down and avoiding the other people's eyes. He shoved the door open and collapsed on the bed, curling in on himself, hugging his knees up to his chest, assuming a familiar position. He just couldn't do this anymore. This, all of this. School. John. It had only been a day and he was ready to give up, he wanted to go back to being alone. And it wasn't about him, really. He was used to all of this, all the bullying, he liked to think it didn't faze him anymore, he liked to think he didn't care. He'd gotten this treatment for years and years on end, from everyone in his life. He could ignore the insults and the shoving, it was easy for him. But this was about John, it was always, always about John. He could faze out seeing these things done to John, he couldn't forget them or ignore them. He hated knowing how normal John had been before, he had met John's old friend's from back home, he had seen how blatantly normal John's life had been before him. He hated seeing John being shoved around, he hated seeing him bullied because Sherlock knew it was all his fault. He knew it hurt John a lot more than it hurt him, but he knew John would never admit it. John just didn't have the practice he did. But more than anything, he hated seeing the scars on John's arms, even though John tried his best to hide them. It was just a reminder of how much he had destroyed because he was stupid and selfish. He didn't deserve to be friends with someone as incredible as John, he didn't deserve it because he was a monster that destroyed everything he touched and nobody should have to deal with that for the sake of one doomed individual. Before John, alone was all he had, alone protected him from all these damned emotions, from all these toxic relationships. He could learn to ignore everything the other people said, he could turn cold, he _had _turned cold. He could drown himself in drugs to make the pain stop and the world slow down to a crawl. He could let everything out with a simple cut to the wrists and a few rivulets of blood flowing across his pale flesh. But he didn't have those things anymore because of John, and the guilt over everything he had put the other boy through was eating him up inside, making him hollow. He wanted to be able to forget this, to break all the promises he had made and just let go. But he couldn't. He was so regretful. He never should have tried this, he never should have let John in his life and opened himself up to this new kind of pain, he was never meant to have friends, that had been made perfectly clear, he hurt everyone he was around and everything was always, always his fault...

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**I don't know how to make this happy...tell me how to make this happy, or if you guys even want this to be happy! Please tell me what you think!**

**Argh! I just want to have them graduate already because I have plans. I get ideas for this story in the weirdest places, like, middle of a freaking set at a concert, middle of the crowd, BAM, idea. Compared to when I'm sitting at my computer and I can't think of a single thing to write...it sucks.**

**Anyways, thanks for reading and see you guys soon :)**


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